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ffiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

Wf BSTER.  N.Y.  U5S0 

( ;)6)  872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  fur  Historicai  IVIicroreproductions  /  institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiquea 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Note*  tachnlquat  at  bibltographiquaa 


Tha  Inttituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibiiographically  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  in  tha 
raproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  baiow. 


a 


n 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couvarture  da  coulaur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagie 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  pelliculAe 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  inic  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  biacit)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illuatrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relit  avac  d'autrea  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadowa  or  distortion 
along  Interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
diatortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  4t6  fiimtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentairea  supplimentaires: 


L'Instltut  a  microfilmi  le  mellleur  exemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  4t4  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  dttaiis 
de  cet  exemplaira  qui  sont  paut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mtthoda  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


D 
D 
D 
13 
D 
0 
D 
D 
□ 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  eat  filmi  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


Coloured  pagea/ 
Pagea  de  couleur 

Pagea  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagAea 

Pagea  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pagea  reataurtea  et/ou  peiiiculAea 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dAcolorAes,  tachattes  ou  piquAea 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  dttachtes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quallt^  intgala  de  I'impreaaion 

Includea  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  material  suppKmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  diaponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalament  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc..  ont  M  filmtes  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  A 
obtenir  la  mellleure  image  possible. 


The  C( 
to  the 


Their 
possil 
of  th« 
fllmin 


Origin 
begini 
the  la 
sion. 
other 
first  p 
sion,  I 
or  iliu 


The  Id 
shall 
TINUI 
which 

Mapa, 
differi 
entire 
begini 
right  I 
requin 
methc 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X                            32X 

Th«  copy  film«d  h«r«  hat  b—n  r«produe«d  thanks 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 


L'axamplaira  filmA  fut  raproduit  grica  i  la 
gAnAroait*  da: 


Univartity  of  Victoria 


University  of  Victoria 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
posaibia  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacificationa. 


Original  eopiaa  in  prinf  ad  papar  eovara  mrm  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  frrmt  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  iaat  paga  with  a  printad  or  iliuatratad  impraa- 
•ion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriato.  All 
othar  original  eopiaa  ara  fllmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  iliuatratad  impraa- 
tlon.  and  anding  on  tha  Iaat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  iliuatratad  impraaaion. 


Laa  imagaa  suivantas  ont  At4  raproduitas  avac  la 
plua  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  film*,  at  an 
conformity  avac  laa  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  9n 
papiar  aat  imprimAa  sont  filmAs  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit.par  la 
darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'iilustration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Tous  las  autras  axampiairas 
originaux  sont  fiimte  wn  commanpant  par  la 
pramlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illuatration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 


Tha  iaat  racordad  frama  on  aach  mierofieha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  "^Br  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED").  or  tha  symbol  V  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 


Un  daa  symboiaa  suivanta  apparaltra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  mierofieha,  salon  la 
caa:  la  symboia  — *>  signifia  "A  SUIVRE ',  la 
symbols  V  signifia  "FIN". 


IMapa,  plataa.  charta.  ate,  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratioa.  Thoaa  too  iarga  to  ba 
antiraly  inciudad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  iiluatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  cartas,  pianchaa,  tabiaaux,  etc.,  pauvant  dtra 
filmte  A  daa  taux  da  rMuction  diff Grants. 
Lorsqua  la  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  soul  ciichA,  11  est  film*  A  partir 
da  I'angia  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite, 
et  da  haut  en  baa.  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'imagea  nAcaaaaira.  Las  diagrammes  suivants 
illuatrant  la  mithode. 


I        "  ■  :      "  -  W  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

jvuii  J I » 1  i.ut  1 1  nuuDn: 

THE 

A  ooUe 
thoiigii  no* 
patrhc!,  th« 
place  on  th 

About, 

The 
The 


txnsnani  tmnxtjm  i  *« 


^^F^^^^^ 


i 


RIES 

^nti'rtuitiing, 
;ket  or  the 
Iwonhy  of  a 


UNIVERSITY 

OF  VICTORIA 

LIBRARY 


Alexan 

Bli> 

Allen, 

Rf.c 

Auerbach,  Berthold. 

On    I  he  IlEiGiiT?.     2  vols. 

The  Villa  on  the   Rhinp;.     .^  V(Jl^. 

Beers,  Prof.  Henry  A. 

A  Century  of  Amlrtcan  Li'ifraiurk. 

Caird.  Mona. 

A   Romance  of  the    Moors. 

Democracy. 

An  American   Novel. 

Fothergill,  Jessie. 

The  First  Violin. 

Macfarlane,  A.  R. 

The  Children  of   fhe  Earth. 

Richardson,  S. 

Clarissa    IIarlowe.        Condensed. 
HENRy  HOLT  &  CO.,  Publishers,  29  W  2d(i  Si..  Nm  Urk. 

SEPTEMBEJi,  1891. 


■  ■«■■■■. «»......^. ..11... 


mmii 


n 


■itsxsxinfiui.1 


JEROME    li.    JEROME'S    ROOKS., 

Diary  of  a  Pilgrimage  (And  six  Essays). 

With     upwards     of     lOO     Illustrations    by    G.    C. 
FRASER.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1.25;  Paper,  40  cts. 

"  Ample  (luniitity  of  fiin  nnd  noriHonsc,  hut  it  in  not  oxtnivaf^ant. 
,      .      .      Over  u  hiiiidnMl  illiistrulionH,  all  clever."     I'hiln.  liulUtin. 

Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow. 

12mo,  Cloth,  $1.00;   Paper,  35  cts. 

"  Characterized  hy  a  .^oincwliat  fresli  and  racy  hnmor,  and  also  by 
consideralile  i)athoH     .     .  fully  e(iual  to  the  ni(»deHt  preteuHionK 

advanced  liy  the  antlior." — X.  Y.  Tribnue. 

THREE   MEN    IN    A    BOAT. 

r2V>  Say  Nofhi7ig  of  the  Dog.) 

illustrations    by    A.    FREDERICS.      l2mo,    Cloth, 

$1  .25;   Paper,  40  cts. 

Describes  the  advcntiiren  and  niinlifipH  of  a  vacation  trip  on  the 
River  Thames. 

*' h.  tour  deforce  in  Uxn.'"     Saturday  lkvic(r. 

"  Irresistibly  funny."—  Vanity  Fair. 

STAGE-LAND. 

Curious  Habits  and  Customs  of  its  Inhabitants. 

illustrated    by   J.    B.    PARTRIDGE.     12mo,  Cloth, 
.   $1 .00;    Paper,  30  cts. 

ON    THE   STAGEHAND   OFF. 

The  Brief  Career  of  a   Woufd-be  Actor. 

"Vastly  amusing-,  but  with  a  vag-uely  pathetic  undertone.    .    .     . 
Few  readers  will  begin  the  volume  without  following  it  to  ^'-e  end." 

— Chicuf/o  Titnes. 

TOLD   AFTER   SUPPER. 

With  96  or  97  illustrations  by  Kenneth  M.  Skeap- 
ing.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1.00;    Paper,  SO  cts. 

"  An  uproarious  parody  of  ghost  stories." 

— iV".  Y.  Comiiam<d  Advertmr. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  Publishers,  29  W.  23d  St.,  New  York. 


r.l. ....■»».ww«^.......>»»Trj»wi..T.«.....  ■....»..■■■...■«■■■»■■».«...«  .1  ■■«.....■«■... 


]«jiiJiJia>utiii 


KKiriiii<»ii.(iiir»m] 


THE     LEISURE     HOUR    SERIES 

A  collection  ot  workn  whoHe  cliara<'ter  it*  ii^'ht  and  cntortaining, 
though  not  trivial,  Wliih-  tlu'y  Mv  handy  for  tho  pocket  or  the 
patcht'l,  th»y  an;  not.  oithcr  in  rontcntK  or  :ii»i»«'aranc«j,  unworthy  nf  a 
place  on  thu  library  ^Ik1v<'(^.     irnno.  cloth,      f  IdO  per  vol 

About,  Edmund. 

riii:  Man  with  thk  Brokfn    Kak 

The  Ndtarv's  Xosf 

Alexander,  Mrs. 

» 

Blind  Faie. 

Allen,   Grant. 

ReCALLKU    lu    LlFK. 

Auerbach,  Berthold. 

On    ruE  IIeighi?.     2  vols. 

The  Villa  on  the   Rhine,     j  vul^. 

Beers,  Prof.  Henry  A. 

A  Century  oe  American  Liieraiurk. 

Caird,  Mona. 

A   Romance  of  the    Moors. 

Democracy. 

An  American   Novel. 

Fothergill,  Jessie. 

The  First  Violin. 

Macfarlane,  A.  R. 

The  Chili*ren  of  the  Fakth. 

Richardson,  S. 

Clarissa    IIarlowe.        Coniiensed, 
HENRy  HOLT  &  CO.,  Publishers,  29  W  23d  St..  New  York. 

SEPTEMliEIi,  189L 


■  ^.■■■..■.l.«»H......»«»«l.«.«..»»T» 


■Kimniiummimiimmjumnmiiimiggiii 


--,»«g«»^umj»jKl««tr»«««»»«T»««TrM»»««««««««»i«»««r««i»»»»«j««»«»«»««»«j«««m«««m»i«i««»«««««m«»»««»jKmj«»»»«w 


n 


JEIWMK    K.    JEROME'S    HOOKS.. 

Diary  of  a  Pilgrimage  (And  six  Essays). 

With     upwards     of     lOO     Illustrations    by    G.    C. 
FRASER.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1.25;   Paper,  40  cts. 

"  Arnplo  unaiitity  of  fun  find  nonw^nse,  but  it  Ih  not  oxtnivai^'unt. 
()vcr  a  hundred  illuHtraliouB,  all  clover."     l*hiUi.  JiiUUtin. 

* 

Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow. 

12mo,  Cloth,  $1.00;   Paper,  35  cts. 

"  Charaotori'/.o<l  by  a  Homcwliat  froKh  and  racy  humor,  and  also  hy 
conniderahlo  patliOH  .     .      fully  equal  to  the  niodoHt  preteuwionH 

advanced  hy  the  author." — iV.  Y.  Tribune. 

THREE    MEN    IN    A    BOAT. 

CTo  Say  Nofhitiy  o/'thc  JJog.) 

Illustrations    by    A.    FREDERICS.      12mo,    Cloth, 

$1.25;    Paper,  40  cts. 

Dpscrihes  the  adventuren  and  niiphapw  of  a  vneation  trip  on   the 
River  ThameH, 

*'■  k  toui  ('e  force  in  h\n.'  -  Saturday  Revleu. 

*'  Irresistibly  funny."—  Vanity  Fair. 

STAGE-LAND. 

Curious  Habits  and  Custotns  of  its  Inhabitants, 

Illustrated    by    J.    B.    PARTRIDGE.     12mo,  Cloth, 

$1  .00;    Paper,  30  cts. 

ON    THE   STAGE-   AND   OFF. 

The  Brief  Career  of  a   Wontd-be  Actor. 

*' Vastly  amusing,  but  with  a  vaguely  pathetic  undertone.    .     .     . 
Few  readers  will  begin  the  volume  without  following  it  to  the  end." 

— Ch iciujo  Thnes. 

TOLD   AFTER   SUPPER. 

With  96  or  97  illustrations  by  Kenneth  M.  S Reap- 
ing.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  .OO;    Paper,  SO  cts. 

"  An  uproarious  parody  of  ghost  stories." 

— N.  Y.  Comrnerdul  AdTcrtiser. 

H£/\IRY  HOLT  d  CO.,  Publishers,  29  W.  23d  St,  New  Urk. 


.  ...........................»....iinn......««i»M.».. ..■■■mm»»««»»««»»»».«»..«inirTL'a 


V 


t/' 


t-' 


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v; 


,v 


\ 


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LEISCRE  irOUR  SERIES, 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE 


lY 


GRANT   ALLEN 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY   HOLT    AND   COMPANY 

189X  • 


rdl'MCH.Ml       |8^,, 


>tv 


HKNkV    lloi.T  .V   C„. 


THE   MERSHON   COMPANY   I  KES.S, 
R'^HWAV,  N.  J. 


CONllCNIS. 


•         t 


•         • 


•         • 


I MAPTRR 

T.  Una  CAi,i.iN(iiiAM's  Fiksi  Ki;<  oli.kc  iions, 

II.    I5K(;lNNIN«i    LlKK   AciAIN, 

HI.  An  Unk.M'Kciki)  Visitor, 

IV.    'lUK   SroRY    OF   TIIK    riloTOdKAl'IIS, 

V.   I  nK( oMK  A  Woman, 
VI.  Kki.ivinc;  my  Liff., 

VII.    TlIK   (iuANCK    A I     WoODHURY,      . 

VIII.  A  Vision  of  Dead  \kaks, 

IX.    IlATKFUL   SUSI'ICIONS, 
X.    YKT   ANOTMFJI    IMIOTOCIKAI'II. 

XI.  TiiK  Vision  Kfcurs, 

XII.  The  Moores  of  Tokqiay, 

XI II.  Hr.  Ivor  of  BAnnicoMiiH, 

XIV.  My  Welcome  to  Canada, 
XV.  A  New  Acquaintance,     . 

XVI.  My  Plans  Alter, 
XVII.  A  Strange  Recognition, 
XVI 1 1.  Murder  Will  Out,     . 
XIX.  The  Real  Murderer,      . 
XX.  The  Stranger  from  hie  Sea. 
XXI.  The  Plot  Unravels  Itself.   . 
XXII.  Mv  Memory  Returns, 

XXI II.  The  Fatal  Shot,     . 

XXIV.  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well, 

Ui 


.        * 


•         » 


fAt.l' 
I 

7 
|6 

,     38 

40 

.     5» 
6o 

.     73 
8o 

.     •)» 
loi 

.  107 

.  122 

133 
.   15'^ 

158 
.   166 

174 
.   182 

195 
.  202 

212 

.  324 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


UNA   CALLINGHAM  S   FIRST   RECOLLECTION. 

IT  may  sound  odd  to  say  so,  but  the  very  earli- 
est  fact  that  impressed  itself  on  my  memory 
was  a  scene  that  took  place — so  I  was  told — when 
1  was  eighteen  years  old,  in  my  father's  house, 
The  Grange,  at  WoodlAiry. 

My  babyhood,  my  childhood,  my  girlhood,  my 
school  days  were  all  utterly  blotted  out  by  that 
one  strange  shock  of  horror.  My  past  life  be- 
came exactly  as  though  it  had  never  been.  I 
forgot  my  own  name.  I  forgot  my  mother 
tongue.  I  forgot  everything  I  had  ever  done  or 
known  or  thought  about.  Except  for  the  power 
to  v/alk  and  stand  and  perform  simple  actions  of 
everyday  use,  I  became  a  baby  in  arms  again, 
with  a  nurse  to  take  care  of  me.  The  doctors 
told  me,  later,  I  had  fallen  into  what  they  were 
pleased  to  call  "a  Second  State."  I  was  examined 
and  reported  upon  as  a  Psychological  Curiosity, 


RECALLED   TO  LLFE. 


But  at  the  time,  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  A 
thunderbolt,  as  it  were,  destroyed  at  one  blow 
every  relic,  every  trace,  of  my  previous  existence ; 
and  I  began  life  all  over  again,  with  that  terrible 
scene  of  blood  as  my  first  birthday  and  practical 
starting  point. 

I  remember  it  all  even  now  with  horrible  dis- 
tinctness. Each  item  in  it  photographed  itself 
vividly  on  my  mind's  eye.  I  saw  it  as  in  a  pic- 
ture— just  as  clearly,  just  as  visually.  And  the 
effect,  now  I  look  back  upon  it  with  a  maturer 
judgm.ent,  was  precisely  like  a  photograph  in  an- 
other way  too.  It  was  wholly  unrelated  in  time 
and  space ;  it  stood  alone  by  itself,  lighted  up  by 
a  single  spark,  without  rational  connection  before 
or  after  it.  What  led  up  to  it  all,  I  hadn't  the 
very  faintest  idea.  I  only  knew  the  Event  itself 
took  place;  and  I,  like  a  statue,  stood  rooted  in 
the  midst  of  it. 

And  this  was  the  Picture  as,  for  many  long 
months,  it  presented  itself  incessantly  to  my 
startled  brain,  by  day  and  by  night,  awake  or 
asleep,  in  colors  more  distinct  than  words  can 
possibly  paint  them. 

I  saw  myself  standing  in  a  large,  square  room — 
a  very  handsome  old  room,  filled  with  book- 
shelves like  a  library.  On  one  side  stood  a  table, 
and  on  the  table  a  box.  A  flash  of  light  ren- 
dered the  whole  scene  visible.  But  it  wasn't 
light  that  came  in  through  the  window.     It  was 


UNA   CALLINGIIAM'S  KECOLLECriON.  3 

rather  like  lightning,  so  quick  it  was,  and  clear, 
and  short-lived,  and  terrible.  Half-way  to  the 
door,  I  stood  and  looked  in  horror  at  the  sight 
revealed  before  my  eyes  by  that  sudden  flash.  A 
man  lay  dead  in  a  little  pool  of  blood  that 
gurgled  by  short  jets  from  a  wound  on  his  left 
breast.  1  didn't  even  know  at  the  moment  the 
man  was  my  father;  though  slov/ly,  afterward,  by 
the  concurrent  testimony  of  others,  I  learnt  to 
call  him  so.  But  his  relationship  wasn't  part  of 
the  Picture  to  me.  There,  he  was  only  in  my 
eyes  a  man — a  man  well  past  middle  age,  with  a 
long  white  beard,  now  dabbled  with  the  thick 
blood  that  kept  gurgling  so  hatefully  from  the  red 
spot  in  his  waistcoat.  He  lay  on  his  back,  half- 
curled  round  toward  one  arm,  exactly  as  he  fell. 
And  the  revolver  he  had  been  shot  with  lay  on 
the  ground  not  far  from  him. 

But  that  wasn't  all  the  Picture.  The  murderer 
was  there  as  well  as  the  victim.  Besides  the 
table,  and  the  box,  and  the  wounded  man,  and 
the  pistol,  1  saw  another  figure  behind,  getting 
out  of  the  window.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  man,  I 
should  say  about  twenty-five  or  thirty:  he  had 
just  raised  himself  to  the  ledge,  and  was  poising 
to  leap ;  for  the  room,  as  I  afterward  learned, 
though  on  the  ground  floor,  stood  raised  on  a 
basement  above  the  garden  behind.  I  couldn't 
see  the  man's  ^ace,  or  any  part  of  him,  indeed, 
except   his  stooping  back,  and   his   feet,  and  his 


*r 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


neck,  and  his  elbows.  But  what  little  I  saw  was 
printed  indelibly  on  the  very  fiber  of  my  nature. 
I  could  have  recognized  that  man  anywhere  if  I 
saw  him  in  the  same  attitude.  I  could  have 
sworn  to  him  m  any  court  of  justice  on  the 
strength  of  his  back  alone,  so  vividly  did  I  picture 
it. 

He  was  tall  and  thin,  but  he  stooped  like  a 
hunchback. 

There  were  other  points  worth  notice  in  that 
strange  mental  photograph.  The  man  was  well- 
dressed,  and  had  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman. 
Looking  back  upon  the  scene  long  after,  when  I 
had  learned  once  more  what  words  and  things 
meant,  I  could  feel  instinctively  this  was  no  com- 
mon burglar,  no  vulgar  murderer.  Whatever 
might  have  been  the  man's  object  in  shooting  my 
father,  I  was  certain  from  the  very  first  it  was  not 
mere  robbery.  But  at  the  time,  I  am  confident, 
I  never  reasoned  about  his  motives  or  his  actions 
in  any  way.  I  merely  took  in  the  scene,  as  it 
were,  passively,  in  a  great  access  of  horror,  which 
rendered  me  incapable  of  sense  or  thought  or 
speech  or  motion.  I  saw  the  table,  the  box,  the 
apparatus  by  its  side,  the  murdered  man  on  the 
floor,  the  pistol  lying  pointed  with  its  muzzle 
toward  his  body,  the  pool  of  blood  that  soaked 
deep  into  the  Turkey  carpet  beneath,  the  ledge 
of  the  window,  the  young  man'%  rounded  back  as 
he  paused  and  hesitated.     And  I  also  saw,  like  an 


UNA   CALLLVailAM'S  RECOLLECTION, 


5 


instantaneous  flash,  one  hand  pushed  behind  hiin, 
waving  me  off,  I  ahiiost  thought,  with  the  gesture 
of  one  warning. 

Why  didn't  I  remember  the  murderer's  face? 
That  puzzled  me  long  after.  I  must  have  seen 
him  before.  I  must  surely  have  been  there  when 
the  crime  was  committed.  I  must  have  known  at 
the  moment  everything  about  it.  But  the  blank- 
that  came  over  my  memory,  came  over  it  with 
the  fatal  shot.  All  that  went  before,  was  to  me 
as  though  it  were  not.  I  recollect  vaguely,  as 
the  first  point  in  my  life,  that  my  eyes  were  shut 
hard,  and  darkness  came  over  me.  While  they 
were  so  shut,  I  heard  an  explosion.  Next  mo- 
ment, I  believe,  I  opened  them,  and  saw  this 
Picture.  No  sensitive-plate  could  have  photo- 
graphed it  more  instantaneously,  as  by  an  elec- 
tric spark,  than  did  my  retina  that  evening,  as  for 
months  after  I  saw  it  all.  In  another  moment,  I 
shut  my  lids  again,  and  all  was  over.  There  was 
darkness  once  more,  and  I  was  alone  with  my 
Horror. 

In  years  then  to  come,  I  puzzled  my  head 
much  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  Picture.  Gradu- 
ally, step  by  step,  I  worked  some  of  it  out,  with 
the  aid  of  my  friends,  and  of  the  evidence  ten- 
dered at  the  coroner's  inquest.  But  for  the  mo- 
ment I  knew  nothing  of  all  that.  I  was  a  new- 
born baby  again.  Only  with  this  important 
difference.     They  say  our  minds  at  birth  are  like 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


a  sheet  of  white  paper,  ready  to  take  whatever 
impressions  may  fall  upon  them.  Mine  was  like 
a  sheet  all  covered  and  obscured  by  one  hateful 
picture.  It  was  weeks,  I  fancy,  before  I  knew  or 
was  conscious  of  anything  else  but  that.  The 
Picture  and  a  great  Horror  divided  my  life  be- 
tween them. 

Recollect,  I  didnV  even  remember  the  mur- 
dered man  was  my  father.  I  didn't  recognize 
the  room  as  one  in  our  own  old  house  at  Wood- 
bury. I  didn't  know  anything  at  all  except  what 
I  tell  you  here.  I  saw  the  corpse,  the  blood,  the 
box  on  the  table,  the  wires  by  the  side,  the  bot- 
tles and  baths  and  plates  of  an  amateur  photog- 
rapher's kit,  without  knowing  what  they  all 
meant.  I  saw  even  the  books  not  as  books  but 
as  visible  points  of  color.  It  had  something  the 
effect  on  me  that  it  might  have  upon  any  one  else 
to  be  dropped  suddenly  on  the  stage  of  a  theater 
at  the  very  moment  when  a  hideous  crime  was 
being  committed,  and  to  believe  it  real,  or,  rather, 
to  know  it  by  some  vague  sense  as  hateful  and 
actual. 

Here  my  history  began.  I  date  from  that  Pic- 
ture. My  second  babyhood  was  passed  in  the 
shadow  of  the  abiding  Horror. 


CHAPTER  II. 


BEGINNING   LIFE  AGAIN, 


WHAT  happened  after  is  far  more  vague  to 
me.  Compared  with  the  vividness  of  that 
one  initial  Picture,  the  events  of  the  next  few 
months  have  only  the  blurred  indistinctness  of  all 
childish  memories.  For  I  was  a  child  once  more, 
in  all  save  stature,  and  had  to  learn  to  remember 
things  just  like  other  children. 

I  will  try  to  tell  the  whole  tale  over  again  ex- 
actly as  it  then  struck  me. 

After  the  Picture,  I  told  you,  I  shut  my  eyes  in 
alarm  for  a  second.  When  I  opened  them  once 
more  there  was  a  noise,  a  very  great  noise,  and 
my  recollection  is  that  people  had  burst  wildly 
into  the  room,  and  were  lifting  the  dead  body, 
and  bending  over  it  in  astonishment,  and  speak- 
ing loud  to  me,  and  staring  at  me.  I  believe  they 
broke  the  door  open,  though  that's  rather  infer- 
ence than  memory;  I  learnt  it  afterward.  Soon 
some  of  them  rushed  to  the  open  window  and 
looked  out  into  the  garden.  Then,  suddenly,  a 
man  gave  a  shout,  and  leaping  on  to  the  sill, 
jumped  down  in  pursuit,  as  I  thought,  of  the  mur- 

7 


8 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


dcrer.  As  time  went  on,  more  people  flocked  in ; 
and  some  of  them  looked  at  the  body  and  the 
pool  of  blood;  and  some  of  them  turned  round 
and  spoke  to  me.  But  what  they  said  or  what 
they  meant  I  hadn't  the  slightest  idea.  The 
noise  of  the  pistol-shot  still  rang  loud  in  my 
ears:  the  ineffable  Horror  still  drowned  all  my 
senses. 

After  a  while,  another  man  came  in,  with  an 
air  of  authority,  and  felt  my  pulse  and  my  brow, 
and  lifted  me  on  to  a  sofa.  But  I  didn't  even 
remember  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  doctor.  1 
lay  there  for  a  while,  quite  dazed;  and  the  man, 
who  was  kindly  looking  and  close-shaven  and 
fatherly,  gave  me  something  in  a  glass;  after 
which  he  turned  round  and  examined  the  body. 
He  looked  hard  at  the  revolver,  too,  and  chalked 
its  place  on  the  ground.  Then  I  saw  no  more, 
for  two  women  lifted  me  in  their  arms  nd  took 
me  up  to  bed ;  and  with  that,  the  first  scene  of 
my  childhood  seemed  to  end  entirely. 

I  lay  in  bed  for  a  day  or  two,  during  which 
time  I  was  dimly  aware  of  much  commotion 
going  on  here  and  there  in  the  house;  and  the 
doctor  came  night  and  morning,  and  tended  me 
carefully.  I  suppose  T  may  call  him  the  doctor 
now,  though  at  the  time  I  didn't  call  him  so — I 
knew  him  merely  as  a  visible  figure.  I  don't 
believe  I  tJiougJit  at  all  during  those  earliest  days, 
or  gave   things  names    in  any    known  language. 


BEC/XXIXG   IIFE  AG  A IX. 


They  rather  passed  before  nie  dreamily  in  long 
procession,  like  a  va<^iie  panorama.  When  i)eo- 
ple  spoke  to  me,  it  was  like  the  sound  of  a  for- 
eij^ni  tonci[ue.  I  attached  no  more  importance  to 
anything  they  said  than  to  the  cawing  of  the 
rooks  in  the  trees  by  the  rectory. 

At  the  end  of  five  davs,  the  doctor  came  once 
more,  and  watched  me  a  great  deal,  and  spoke  in 
a  low  voice  with  a  woman  in  a  white  cap  and  a 
clean  white  apron  who  waited  on  me  daily.  As 
soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  nurse,  as  I  learned  after- 
ward to  call  her, — it's  so  hard  not  to  drop  into 
the  language  of  everyday  life  when  one  has  to 
describe  things  to  other  people, — my  nurse  got 
me  up,  with  much  ado  and  solemnity,  and 
dressed  me  in  a  new  black  frock,  very  dismal  and 
ugly,  and  put  on  me  a  black  hat,  with  a  dreary- 
looking  veil;  and  took  me  downstairs,  with  the 
aid  of  a  man  who  wore  a  suit  of  blue  clothes  and 
a  queer  sort  of  helmet.  The  man  was  of  the  sort 
I  now  call  a  policeman.  These  pictures  are  far 
less  definite  in  my  mind  than  the  one  that  begins 
my  second  life;  but  still,  in  a  vague  kind  of  way, 
1  pretty  well  remember  them. 

On  the  ground  floor,  nurse  made  me  walk ;  and 
I  walked  out  to  the  door,  where  a  cab  was  in 
waiting,  drawn  slowly  by  a  pair  of  horses.  Peo- 
ple were  looking  on,  on  either  side,  between  the 
door  and  the  cab — great  crowds  of  people,  peer- 
ing eagerly  forward ;  and  two  more  men  in  blue 


lO 


"KCU.U-n    TO  r,FK, 


•■""■ts  were  holdi,,.,  than   .  n  v. 

^"'•^'•••K   a,..in.st    i,e    ;    ,  't'^'  '"■"■'>  ^-ce  from 

•••"'HT  curiosity  [|,r,'   ";   '""■'   ""-•;    .t    wns 

T'f-,  '<•  SCO  n,.  I.:  ;J  '"  ■^.f^'^'^--  T'-ey  wore 
^^^"';  '""cJ  cries,  so  M,..t  tl  c  ,r  "T'^''  '"••»•■•'"' 
'•^'-   work-  to  provont  thorn       '"  '"  ""^'  ^""-^  ''"'' 

Jk"">v„ovvthorowcrc;„.„ 
"•'""^•d    to  SCO  mo.     li'  '"°  '■'^''"'""s  "V  tl.cy 
''•"'-''tcT.   and  I    was\  P    ";^'""'•'''••'-cc^  man's 

"■'^  •'•  J  «ychologica|    Phcnom. 
^^c  drove  avv'iv    \\ 
«l>,  nurse  and  I     ,,!["•  ^     ?''^^"    ''•">es,  in   the 
-l^'ch  surrounded    .;',;.  ■^P"'=   °f  ^"o    Horror 

7''ich    recurred    every    ti      "i"' T'^    "'^'    '''^-^'-e 
t'-"k.  I  enjoyed  tint  d  "''"'   "^   ^V"  to 

^  ''-■arnt  later  I  was  oiH   .        ^''''''"'•'=-     ''"''ough 
--^   ••"    .r.y   inner  seSS'  T"  ^^^  "'  '^'^^'^ 
■"""tl..s.  going  ta-ta.     A      L  It"  'f  ^'^^  "'  "'^ 
^'■^■w  up  sharp  at  a  hot^e  1         "^  ""-^  ''''''-'  "x- 
«t°°d  about,  with  red    b;nd     ■'  "T^  """'^  '"<^" 
'-l^-   boxes  from  the  cab  .n  ,°"    '^'''  '^P^'  «"'' 
van,  while  ,u,rse  anS  I  J       ''"'  *'^'-''"  '"^0  a 
■•-age,  drawn  quickly  bv  a  th'        i'  ^"^"''^"^  ^«- 

«"d  yet  in  a  way      d"d     Tj  u  7'  '  '•«'■'->'. 
membered    it.     Thing     that    V,     '^°''  '''"  - 

P-V.OUS  state  seemed'to  come  back  t?"    •"    '"^ 

"le  Dack  to  me,  in  fact, 


BEGINNING  LIFE  AGAIN. 


II 


^'^*  from 
mc.      J 

't    vvas 

''  faces. 

y  vvcrc 
>'v\'an| 

ts  Jiad 

'  they 
man's 
L'nom- 

1    the 
>rror, 
lure, 
■s   to 
'i  ail 

St,    J 

ten 
vvc 
leji 
md 
>  a 
ar- 
ff. 

y, 

e- 

y 

t, 


as  soon  as  I  saw  them ;  or  at  least  to  be  more 
familiar  to  me  than  thinjijs  I'tl  never  seen  before. 
Especially  afterward.  But  while  thint^s  were  re- 
membered, persons,  I  found  by  and  by,  were  com- 
pletely forgotten.  Or  rather,  while  I  remembered 
after  a  while  generalities,  such  as  houses  and  men, 
recognizing  them  in  the  abstract  as  a  house,  or  a 
man,  or  a  horse,  or  a  baby,  I  forgot  entirely  par- 
ticulars, such  as  the  names  of  people  and  the 
places  I  had  lived  in.  Words  soon  came  back  to 
me ;  names  and  facts  were  lost :  I  knew  the  world 
as  a  whole,  not  my  own  old  part  in  it. 

Well,  not  to  make  my  story  too  long  in  these 
early  childish  stages,  we  went  on  the  train,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  a  long  way  across  fields  to  Aunt 
Emma's.  I  didn't  know  she  was  Aunt  Emma 
then,  for,  indeed,  I  had  never  seen  her  before; 
but  I  remember  arriving  there  at  her  pretty  little 
cottage,  and  seeing  a  sweet  old  lady, — barely 
sixty,  I  should  say,  but  with  smooth  white  hair, — 
who  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  house  and  cried  like  . 
a  child,  and  held  out  her  hands  to  me,  and 
hugged  me  and  kissed  me.  And  it  was  there 
that  I  learned  my  first  word.  A  great  many 
times  over,  she  spoke  about  "Una."  She  said  it 
so  often,  I  caught  vaguely  at  the  sound.  And 
nurse,  when  she  answered  her,  said  "Una"  also. 
Then,  when  Aunt  Emma  called  me,  she  always 
said  "Una."  So  it  came  to  me  dimly  that  Una 
meant  me.     But  I  didn't  exactly  recollect  it  had 


V"""-^'- jus.  as  firs.      '   ;        r  ''"""    ^••'"'•'1   s". 

so  nauglity?"  *''•'"  •"'"'''  l^"or  Una  for  bcinR 

'"•"cl.   like   ,ny   fi,.,t    wt  '  "^  '"°"''  g'-'l- 

^•'-    Horror  and   the  Pet url"''   ""'■^'P">'   '-• 
^'"^^--     It  uas  months  an  I  f"'''""^    '"«-"    ^0° 

^'•^^'•dforanJer        ;:;t'^^°'-^^ 
"are.     And  yet  I  had  evcrv.^,i„^    ',"'""'   "'«'■'• 
*«  ^^^^  .ne  happy,    iu,  fr^  "'"  '"'  "^^'f'' 
i;-'ty  east-coast  town    ,;,;,   k-T'''',  "-^'    '"   a 
<'owns  and   bree.y   comln    K  ^     •^''-^'^en.clad 
f'ont   stretched  great  s,!.      7"'"^'    "'"'^  "> 
'-aco  about  and  to  p L^     Ju'"''"''^  ^   '°-«d   to 
;!-  the  Jovchest  tow^That  e  '"'   '^""'•^-     ^^ 

'f •■  -itl.  a  broken  danelT  ^7  ''^  '"  ^-""^ 
c'-ch.  and  a  I-ghthouse Tnt  ^  J'"'"'  "''^ 
views  to  seaward.  The  .ul  u  "^'^^  dehcious 
(I  know  now)  as  soon  as  I       '"'  ^^"^  "'^  ''-re 

"  ^'  ^  ^^as  well  enough  to 


BEG/I^NIXi;  I.IhE  AGAIN. 


i3 


move,  in  order  lo  ^^ct  inc  away  from  the  terrible 
associations  of  The  Grange  at  Woodbury.  As 
long  as  I  lived  in  the  midst  of  scenes  which  would 
remind  me  of  poor  father,  he  said,  and  of  his 
tragical  death,  there  was  no  hope  of  my  recovery. 
The  only  chance  for  me  to  regain  what  I  had  lost 
in  that  moment  of  shock  was  complete  change 
of  air,  of  life,  of  surroundings.  Aunt  Emma,  for 
her  part,  was  only  too  glad  to  take  me  in  ;  and  as 
poor  papa  had  died  intestate,  Aunt  ICmma  was 
now,  of  course,  my  legal  guardi.ui. 

She  was  my  mother's  sister  I  learned  as  time 
v/ent  on  ;  and  there  had  been  a  feud  while  he  lived 
between  her  and  my  father.  Why,  I  couldn't 
imagine.  She  was  the  sweetest  old  soul  I  ever 
knew,  indeed ;  and  what  on  earth  he  could  have 
(juarrcled  with  her  about  I  never  could  fathom. 
She  tended  mo  so  carefully  that  as  months  went 
by  the  Horror  began  to  decrease  and  my  soul  to 
become  calm  again.  I  grew  gradually  able  to 
remain  in  a  room  alone  for  a  few  minutes  at  a 
time,  and  to  sleep  at  night  in  a  bed  by  myself,  if 
only  there  was  a  candle,  and  nurse  was  in  another 
bed  in  the  same  room  close  by  me. 

Yet  every  now  and  again  a  fresh  shivering  fit 
came  on.  At  such  times  I  would  cover  my  head 
with  the  bedclothes  and  cower,  and  see  the 
Picture  even  so,  floating  visibly  in  mid-air  Hke  a 
vision  before  me. 

My  second  education  must  have  been  almost 


M 


.    RECALLED    TO   LIFE. 


as  much  of  a  business  as  my  first  had  been,  only 
rather  less  longsome.  I  had  first  to  relearn  the 
English  language,  which  came  back  to  me  by 
degrees,  much  quicker,  of  course,  than  I  had 
picked  it  up  in  my  childhood.  Then  I  had  to 
begin  again  with  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic — 
all  new  to  me  in  a  way,  and  all  old  in  another. 
Whatever  I  learned  and  whatever  I  read  seemed 
novel  while  I  learned  it,  but  familiar  the  moment 
I  had  thoroughly  grasped  it.  To  put  it  shortly,  I 
could  remember  nothing  of  myself,  but  I  could 
recall  many  things,  after  a  time,  as  soon  as  they 
were  told  me  clearly.  The  process  was  rather  a 
process  of  reminding  than  of  teaching,  properly  so 
called.  But  it  took  some  years  for  me  to  recall 
things,  even  when  I  was  reminded  of  them. 

I  spent  four  years  at  Aunt  Emma's,  growing 
gradually  to  my  own  age  again.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  I  was  counted  a  giil  of  twenty-two, 
much  like  any  other.  But  I  was  older  than  my 
age;  and  the  shadow  of  the  Horror  pursued  me 
incessantly. 

All  that  time  I  knew,  too,  from  what  I  heard 
said  in  the  house,  that  my  father's  murderer  had 
never  been  caught,  and  that  nobody  even  knew 
who  he  was,  or  anything  definite  about  him.  The 
police  gave  him  up  as  an  uncaught  criminal.  He 
was  still  at  large,  and  might  always  be  so.  I  knew 
this  from   vague  hints,  and    from    vague    hints 


BEGINNING  LIFE  AGAIN. 


15 


alone;  for  whenever  I  tried  to  ask,  I  was  hushed 
up  at  once  with  an  air  of  authority. 

"Una,  dearest,"  Aunt  Emma  would  say,  in  her 
quiet  fashion,  "you  mustn't  talk  about  that  night. 
I  have  Dr.  Wade's  strict  orders  that  nothing  must 
be  said  to  you  about  it,  and  above  aii,  nothing 
that  could  in  any  way  excite  or  arouse  you." 

So  I  was  fain  to  keen  mv  peace;  for  though 
Aunt  Emma  was  kind,  she  ruled  me  still  in  all 
things  like  a  little  girl,  as  I  was  when  I  came  to 
her. 


m 


CHAPTER   III. 


AN   UNEXPECTED   VISITOR. 


ONE  morning,  after  I'd  been  four  whole  years  at 
Aunt  Emma's,  I  heard  a  ring  at  the  bell,  and, 
looking  over  the  stairs  saw  a  tall  and  handsome 
man,  in  a  semi-military  coat,  who  asked,  in  a  most 
audible  voice,  for  Miss  Callingham. 

Maria,  the  housemaid,  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Miss  Callingham's  in,  sir,"  she  answered,  in 
a  somewhat  dubious  tone;  "but  I  don't  know 
whether  I  ought  to  let  you  see  her  or  not.  My 
mistress  is  out;  and  I've  strict  orders  that  no 
strangers  are  to  call  on  Miss  Callingham  when  her 
aunt's  not  here." 

And  she  held  the  door  ajar  in  her  hand  unde- 
cidedly. 

The  tall  man  smiled,  and  seemed  to  me  to  slip 
a  coin  quietly  into  Maria's  palm. 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  answered,  with  unob- 
trusive persistence;  "I  thought  Miss  Moore  was 
out.  That's  just  why  I've  come.  I'm  an  officer 
from  Scotland  Yard,  and  I  want  to  see  Miss  Cal- 
lingham— alone — most  particularly." 

Maria  drew  herself  up  and  paused. 

1$ 


AN"  UMEXPECTED   VISITOR, 


17 


My  heart  stood  still  within  me  at  this  chance 
of  enlightenment.  I  guessed  what  he  meant ;  so 
1  called  over  the  stairs  to  her,  in  a  tremor  of  ex- 
citement : 

"Show  the  gentleman  into  the  drawing-room, 
Maria.     Til  come  down  to  him  at  once." 

For  I  was  dying  to  know  the  explanation  of 
the  Picture  that  haunted  me  so  persistently;  and 
as  nobody  at  home  would  ever  tell  me  anything 
worth  knowing  about  it,  I  thought  this  was  as 
good  an  opportunity  as  I  could  get  for  making  a 
beginning  toward  the  solution  of  the  mystery. 

Well,  I  ran  into  my  own  room  as  quick  as  quick 
could  be,  and  set  my  front  hair  straight,  aiid 
slipped  on  a  hat  and  jacket  (for  I  was  in  my 
morning  dress),  and  then  went  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room to  see  the  Inspector. 

He  rose  as  I  entered.  He  was  a  gentleman,  I  felt 
at  once.  His  manner  was  as  deferential,  as  kind, 
and  as  considerate  to  my  sensitiveness  as  any- 
thing it's  possible  for  you  to  imagine  in  any  one. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  to  trouble  you,  Miss  Calling- 
ham,"  he  said,  with  a  very  gentle  smile;  "but  I 
daresay  you  can  understand  yourself  the  object 
of  my  visit.  I  could  have  wished  to  come  in  a 
more  authorized  way;  but  I've  been  in  corre- 
spondence with  Miss  Moore  for  some  time  past 
as  to  the  desirability  of  reopening  the  inquiry 
with  regard  to  your  father's  unfortunate  death ; 
and  I  thought  the  time  might  now  have  arrived 


" 


rS 


kECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


when  it  would  be  possible  to  put  a  few  questions 
to  you  personally  upon  that  unhappy  subject. 
Miss  Moore  objected  to  my  plan.  She  thought 
it  would  still  perhaps  be  prejudicial  to  your 
health — a  point  in  which  Dr.  Wade,  1  must  say, 
entirely  agrees  with  her.  Nevertheless,  in  the  in- 
terests of  justice,  as  the  murderer  is  still  at  large, 
I've  ventured  to  ask  you  for  this  interview;  be- 
cause what  I  read  in  the  newspapers  about  the 
state  of  your  health " 

I  interrupted  him,  astonished. 

"What  you  read  in  the  newspapers  about  the 
state  of  my  health !"  I  repeated,  thunderstruck. 
"Why,  surely  they  don't  put  the  state  of  my 
health  in  the  newspapers?" 

For  I  didn't  know  then  I  was  a  Psychological 
Phenomenon. 

The  Inspector  smiled  blandly,  and,  pulling  out 
his  pocket-book,  selected  a  cutting  from  a  pile 
that  apparently  all  referred  to  me. 

"You're  mistaken,"  he  said  briefly.  "The 
newspapers,  on  the  contrary,  have  treated  your 
case  at  great  length.  See,  here's  the  latest  re- 
port. That's  clipped  from  last  Wednesday's 
Telegraph^ 

I  remembered  then  that  a  paragraph  of  just 
that  size  had  been  carefully  cut  out  of  Wednes- 
day's paper  before  I  was  allowed  by  Aunt  Emma 
to  read  it.  Aunt  Emma  always  glanced  over 
the  paper  first,  indeed,  and  often  cut  out  such 


^ 


AN   UNEXPECTED    VISITOR. 


19 


offending  paragraphs.  But  I  never  attached 
much  importance  to  their  absence  before,  because 
I  thought  it  was  merely  a  little  fussy  result  of 
auntie's  good  old  English  sense  of  maidenly 
modesty.  I  supposed  she  merely  meant  to  spare 
my  blushes.  I  knew  girls  were  often  prevented 
on  particular  days  from  reading  the  papers. 

But  now  I  seized  the  paragraph  he  handed  me, 
and  read  it  with  deep  interest.  It  was  the  very  first 
time  I  had  seen  my  own  name  in  a  printed  news- 
paper. I  didn't  know  then  how  often  it  had  fig- 
ured there. 

The  paragraph  was  headed,  "The  Woodbury 
Murder,"  and  it  ran  something  like  this,  as  well 
as  I  can  remember  it : 

''There  are  still  hopes  that  the  miscreant  who 
shot  Mr.  Vivian  Callingham  at  The  Grange,  at 
Woodbury,  some  four  years  since,  may  be  tracked 
down  and  punished  at  last  for  his  cowardly  crime. 
It  will  be  fresh  in  every  one's  memory,  as  one  of 
the  most  romantic  episodes  in  that  extraordinary 
tragedy,  that  at  the  precise  moment  of  her 
father's  death,  Miss  Callingham,  who  was  present 
in  the  room  during  the  attack,  and  who  alone 
might  have  been  a  witness  capable  of  recognizing 
or  describing  the  wretched  assailant,  lost  her 
reason  on  the  spot,  owing  to  the  appalling  shock 
to  her  nervous  system,  and  remained  for  some 
months  in  an  imbecile  condition.  Gradually,  as 
we  have  informed  our  readers  from  time  to  time, 


\ 


kEC^LLEb    TO  LIPE, 


Miss  Callingham*.  intellect  has  become  stronger 
and  stronger;  and  though  she  is  still  totally  un- 
able to  remember  spontaneously  any  events  that 
occurred  before  her  father's  death,  it  is  hoped  it 
may  be  possible,  by  describing  vividly  certain 
trains  of  previous  incidents,  to  recall  them  in 
some  small  degree  to  her  imperfect  memory.  Dr. 
Thornton,  of  Welbeck  Street,  who  has  visited  her 
from  time  to  time  on  behalf  of  the  Treasury,  in 
conjunction  with  Dr.  Wade,  her  own  medical 
attendant,  went  down  to  Barton-on-the-Sea  on 
Monday,  and  once  more  examined  Miss  Calling- 
ham's  intellect.  Though  the  doctor  is  judiciously 
reticent  as  to  the  result  of  his  visit,  it  is  generally 
believed  at  Barton  that  he  thinks  the  young  lady 
sufficiently  recovered  to  undergo  a  regular  inter- 
rogatory; and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Dr.  Wade 
is  opposed  to  any  such  proceeding  at  present,  as 
prejudicial  to  the  lady's  health,  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  the  Treasury  may  act  upon  their  own  medical 
ofificial's  opinion,  and  send  down  an  Inspector 
from  Scotland  Yard  to  make  inquiries  direct  on 
the  subject  from  Miss  Callingham  in  person." 

My  head  swam  round.  It  was  all  like  a  dream 
to  me.  I  held  my  forehead  with  my  hands,  and 
gazed  blankly  at  the  Inspector. 

**Y"  understand  what  all  this  means?"  he  said 
interrogatively,  leaning  forward  as  he  spoke. 
**You  remember  the  murder?" 

"Perfectly,**  I  answered  him,  trembling  all  over. 


AN  UNEXPECTED    VISITOR. 


2t 


"I  remember  every  detail  of  it.  I  could  describe 
to  you  exactly  all  the  objects  in  the  room.  The 
Picture  it  left  behind  has  burned  itself  into  my 
brain  like  a  flash  of  lightning!" 

The  Inspector  drew  his  chair  nearer. 

"Now,  Miss  Callingham,"  he  said,  in  n  very 
serious  voice,  "that's  a  remarkable  expression — 
Mike  a  flash  of  lightning.'  Bear  in  mind,  this  is  a 
matter  of  life  and  death  to  somebody  somewhere. 
Somebody's  neck  may  depend  upon  your  answers. 
Will  you  tell  me  exactly  how  much  you  re- 
member?" 

I  told  him  in  a  few  words  precisely  how  the 
scene  had  imprinted  itself  on  my  memory.  I  re- 
called the  room,  the  box,  the  green  wires,  the 
carpet ;  the  man  who  lay  dead  in  his  blood  on  the 
floor;  the  man  who  stood  poised  ready  to  leap 
from  the  window.  He  let  me  go  on  unchecked 
till  I'd  finished  everything  I  had  to  say  spontane- 
ously. Then  he  took  a  photograph  from  his 
pocket,  which  he  didn't  show  me.  Looking  at  it 
attentively,  he  asked  me  questions,  one  by  one, 
about  the  different  things  in  the  room  at  the  time 
in  very  minute  detail :  Where  exactly  was  the 
box  ?  How  did  it  stand  relatively  to  the  unlighted 
lamp?  What  was  the  position  of  the  pistol  on 
the  floor?  In  what  direction  was  my  father's 
head  lying?  Though  it  brought  back  the  Horror 
to  me  in  a  fuller  and  more  terrible  form  than 
ever,  I  answered  all  his  questions  to  the  very  best 


22 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


of  my  ability.  I  could  picture  the  whole  scene 
like  a  photograph  to  myself;  and  I  didn't  doubt 
the  object  he  held  in  his  hand  was  a  photograph 
of  the  room  as  it  appeared  after  the  murder.  He 
checked  my  statements,  one  by  one,  as  I  went  on, 
by  reference  to  the  photograph,  murmuring  half 
to  himself  now  and  again :  "Yes,  yes,  exactly 
so";  "that's  right";  "that  was  so,"  at  each  item  I 
mentioned. 

At  the  end  of  these  inquiries,  he  paused  and 
looked  hard  at  me. 

"Now,  Miss  Callingham,"  he  said,  again  peering 
deep  into  my  eyes,  "I  want  you  to  concentrate 
your  mind  very  much,  not  on  this  Picture  you 
carry  so  vividly  in  your  own  brain,  but  on  the 
events  that  went  immediately  before  and  after  it. 
Pause  long  and  think.  Try  hard  to  remember. 
And  first,  you  say,  there  was  a  great  flash  of  light. 
Now,  answer  me  this :  was  it  one  flash  alone,  or 
had  there  been  several?" 

I  stopped  and  racked  my  brain.  Blank,  blank, 
as  usual. 

"I  can't  remember,"  I  faltered  out,  longing 
terribly  to  cry.  "I  can  recall  just  that  one  scene, 
and  nothing  else  in  the  world  before  it." 

He  looked  at  me  fixedly,  jotting  down  a  few 
words  in  his  note-book  as  he  looked.  Then  he 
spoke  again,  still  more  slowly : 

"Now,  try  once  more,"  he  said,  with  an  en- 
couraging air.     "You  saw  this  man's  back  as  he 


AN  UNEXPECTED    VISITOH. 


23 


was  getting  out  of  the  window.  But  can't  you 
remember  having  s^cn  his  face  before?  Had  he 
a  beard?  a  mustache?  What  eyes?  what  nose? 
Did  you  see  the  shot  fired?  And  if  so,  what  sort 
of  person  was  the  man  who  fired  it?" 

Again  I  searched  the  pigeon-holes  of  my 
memory  in  vain,  as  I  had  done  a  hundred  times 
before  by  myself. 

"It's  no  use,"  I  cried  helplessly,  letting  my 
hands  drop  by  my  side.  "I  can't  remember  a 
thing,  except  the  Picture.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  saw  the  shot  fired  or  not.  I  don't  know  what 
the  murderer  looked  like  in  the  face.  I've  told 
you  all  I  know.  I  can  recall  nothing  else.  It's 
all  a  great  blank  to  me." 

The  Inspector  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  in 
doubt  what  step  to  take  next.  Then  he  drew 
himself  up  and  said,  still  more  gravely : 

"This  inability  to  assist  us  is  really  very  singu- 
lar. I  had  hoped,  after  Dr.  Thornton's  report, 
that  we  might  at  last  count  with  some  certainty 
upon  arriving  at  fresh  results  as  to  the  actual  mur- 
der. I  can  see  from  what  you  tell  me  you're  a 
young  lady  of  intelligence — much  above  the 
average — and  great  strength  of  mind.  It's 
curious  your  memory  should  fail  you  so  pointedly 
just  where  we  stand  most  in  need  of  its  aid. 
Recollect,  nobody  else  but  you  ever  saw  the 
murderer's  face.  Now,  I'm  going  to  presume 
you're  answering   me  honestly,   and    try  a  bold 


^4 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


means  to  arouse  your  dormant  memory.  Look 
hard,  and  hark  back.  Is  that  the  room  you 
recollect?  Is  that  the  picture  that  still  haunts 
and  pursues  you?" 

He  handed  me  the  photograph  he  held  in  his 
finders.  I  took  it,  all  on  fire.  The  sight  almost 
made  me  turn  sick  with  horror.  To  my  awe  and 
amazement,  it  was  indeed  the  very  scene  I  remem- 
bered so  well.  Only,  of  course,  it  was  taken  from 
another  point  of  view,  and  represented  things  in 
rather  different  relative  positions  to  those  I  fig- 
ured them  in.  But  it  showed  my  father's  body 
lying  dead  upon  the  floor;  it  showed  his  poor 
corpse  weltering  helpless  in  its  blood ;  it  showed 
myself,  as  a  girl  of  eighteen,  standing  awestruck, 
gazing  on  in  blank  horror  at  the  sight ;  and  in  the 
background,  half  blurred  by  the  summer  evening 
light,  it  showed  the  vague  outline  of  a  man's 
back,  getting  out  of  the  window.  On  one  side 
was  the  door;  that  formed  no  part  of  my  mental 
picture,  because  it  was  at  my  back;  but  in  the 
photograph  it  too  was  indistinct,  as  if  in  the  very 
act  of  being  burst  open.  The  details  were  vague 
in  part, — probably  the  picture  had  never  been 
properly  focussed, — but  the  main  figures  stood 
out  with  perfect  clearness,  and  everything  in  the 
room  was,  allowing  for  the  changed  point  of  view, 
exactly  as  I  remembered  it  in  my  persistent  men- 
tal photograph. 


A.W   UNEXPECTED    VISITOR, 


as 


I  drew  a  tlccp  breath. 

"Tliat's  my  Picture,"  I  said  slowly.  "Hut  it  re- 
calls to  me  nothing  new.  I  —  I  don't  understand 
it." 

The  Inspector  stared  at  me  hard  once  more. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  asketl,  "how  that  photo- 
graph was  produced,  and  how  it  came  into  our 
possession?" 

I  trembled  violently. 

"No,  I  don't,"  I  answered,  reddening.  "But— 
I  think  it  had  somethingto  do  with  the  flash  like 
lightning." 

The  Inspector  jumped  at  those  words  like  a 
cat  upon  a  mouse. 

"Quil^  right,"  he  cried  briskly,  as  one  who  at 
last,  after  long  search,  finds  a  hopeful  clew  where 
all  seemed  hopeless.  "It  had  to  do  with  the 
flash.  The  flash  produced  it.  This  is  a  photo- 
graph taken  by  your  father's  process Of 

course  you  recollect  your  father's  process?" 

He  eyed  me  closely.  The  words,  as  he  spoke 
them,  seemed  to  call  up  dimly  some  faint  mem- 
ory of  my  pre-natal  days — of  my  First  State,  as 
I  had  learned  from  the  doctors  to  call  it.  But 
his  scrutiny  made  me  shrink.  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
looked  back. 

"I  think,"  I  said  slowly,  rummaging  my  memory 
half  in  vain,  "I  remember  something  about  it.  It 
had  something  to  do  with  photography,  hadn't 


§6 


RlXAl.l.En    70  LIFE, 


it?  ...  .  No,  no,  with  the  electric  Ii|;ht I 

can't  exactly  remember  whicli.  Will  you  tell  me 
all  about  it?" 

lie  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and,  cyeinj;  me  all 
the  time  with  that  same  watchful  glance,  bej;an 
to  describe  to  me  in  some  detail  an  apparatus 
which  he  saitl  my  father  had  devised  for  taking 
instantaneous  photographs  by  the  electric  li^ht, 
with  a  clock-work  mechanism.  It  was  an  appa- 
ratus that  let  sensitive-plates  revolve  one  after 
another  opposite  the  lens  of  a  camera;  and  as 
each  was  ex[)osed,  the  clock-work  that  moved  it 
produced  an  electric  spark,  so  as  to  represent  such 
a  series  of  effects  as  the  successive  position  of  a 
horse  in  trotting.  My  father,  it  seemed,  was  of 
a  scientific  turn,  and  had  just  perfected  this  new 
automatic  machin(!  befoie  his  sudden  death.  I 
listened  with  breathless  interest;  for  up  to  that 
time  I  had  never  been  allowed  to  hear  anythin^^ 
about  my  father — anything  about  the  great 
tragedy  with  which  my  second  life  began.  It 
was  wonderful  to  me  even  no.v  to  be  allowed  to 
speak  and  ask  questions  on  it  with  anybody, 
so  hedged  about  had  I  been  all  my  days  with 
mystery. 

As  I  listened,  I  saw  the  Inspector  could  tell 
by  the  answering  flash  in  my  eye  that  his  words 
recalled  sometJiing  to  me,  how^ever  vaguely.  As 
he   finished,    I  leant    forward,  and   with    a  very 


/4X    IWEXPh.CTEP    \  ISITOK, 


•7 


tUishcd  face,  that  I  cuukl  feci  myself,  1  tiietl,  in  a 
burst  of  recollection : 

"Yes,  yes.  I  remember.  And  the  bf)X  on  the 
table— the  box  that's  in  my  mental  picture,  and 
is  not  in  the  photograph — that  was  the  apparatus 
you've  just  been  describinJ3^" 

The  Inspector  turned  upon  me  with  a  rapidity 
that  fairly  took  my  breath  away. 

"Well,  where  are  the  other  ones?"  he  asked, 
pouncing  down  upon  me  cpiite  fiercely. 

"The  other  Tf/f<///"  I  repeated,  amazed,  for  I 
didn't  really  understand  him. 

"Why,  the  other  pliotographs!"  he  replied,  as 
if  trying  to  surprise  me.  "There  must  have  been 
more,  you  know ;  it  held  six  plates.  Except  for 
this  one,  the  apparatus,  when  we  found  it,  was 
empty." 

His  manner  seemed  to  crush  out  the  faint  spark 
of  recollection  that  just  flickered  within  me. 
I  collapsed  at  once.  I  couldn't  stand  such 
brusqueness. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  answered  in 
despair.  "I  never  saw  the  plates.  I  know  noth- 
ing about  them." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE   STORY   OF   THE    PHOTOGRAPHS. 


'  ''PHE  Inspector  scanned  me  closely  for  a  few 
■■■  minutes  in  silence.  He  seemed  doubtful, 
suspicious.     At  last  he  made  a  new  move. 

*M  believe  you,  Miss  Callingham,"  he  said,  more 
gently.  "I  can  see  this  train  of  thought  dis- 
tresses you  too  much.  But  I  can  see,  too,  our 
best  chance  lies  in  supplying  you  with  indepen- 
dent clews  which  you  may  work  out  for  yourself. 
You  must  re-educate  your  memory.  You  want 
to  know  all  about  this  murder,  of  course.  Well, 
now,  look  over  these  papers.  They'll  tell  you,  in 
brief,  what  little  we  know  about  it.  And  they 
may  succeed  in  striking  afresh  some  resonant 
chord  in  your  memory." 

He  handed  me  a  book  of  pasted  newspaper 
paragraphs,  interspersed  here  and  there,  in  red 
ink,  with  little  manuscript  notes  and  comments. 
I  began  to  read  it  with  profound  interest.  It  was 
so  strange  for  me  thus  to  learn  for  the  first  time 
the  history  r  f  my  own  life ;  for  I  was  quite 
ignorant  as  yet  of  almost  everything  about  my 
First  State^  and  my  father  and  mother. 

«8 


TirK   STORY  OF    THE   PHOTOGRAPHS. 


29 


The  paragraphs  told  me  the  whole  story  of  the 
crime,  as  far  as  it  was  known  to  the  world,  from 
the  very  beginning.  First  of  all,  in  the  papers, 
came  the  bald  announcement  that  a  murder  had 
been  committed  in  a  country  town  in  Stafford- 
shire ;  and  that  the  victim  was  Mr.  Vivian  Calling- 
ham,  a  gentleman  of  means,  residing  in  his  own 
house.  The  Grange,  at  Woodbury.  Mr.  Calling- 
ham  was  the  inventor  of  the  acmegraphic  process. 
The  servants,  said  the  telegram  to  the  London  pa- 
pers, had  heard  the  sound  of  a  pistol  shot,  about 
half-past  eight  at  night,  coming  from  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Callingham's  library.  Aroused  by  the  re- 
port, they  rushed  hastily  to  the  spot,  and  broke 
open  the  door,  which  was  locked  from  within.  As 
they  did  so,  a  horrible  sight  met  their  astonished 
eyes.  Mr.  Callingham's  dead  body  lay  extended 
on  the  ground,  shot  right  through  the  heart,  and 
weltering  in  its  life-blood.  Miss  Callingham  stood 
by  his  side,  transfixed  with  horror,  and  mute  in 
her  agony.  On  the  floor  lay  the  pistol  that  had 
fired  the  fatal  shot.  And  just  as  the  servants 
entered,  for  one  second  of  time  the  murderer,  who 
was  otherwise  wholly  unknown,  was  seen  to  leap 
from  the  window  into  the  shrubbery  below.  The 
gardener  rushed  after  him,  and  jumped  down  at 
the  same  spot.  But  the  murderer  had  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic.  It  was  conjectured  he  must  have 
darted  down  the  road  at  full  speed,  vaulted  tl  e 
gate,  which  was  usually  locked,  and  made  off  at  a 


30 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


rapid  run  for  the  open  country.  Up  to  date  of 
going  to  press,  the  Telegraph  said,  he  was  still  at 
large  and  had  not  been  apprehended. 

That  was  the  earliest  account — bald,  simple, 
unvarnished.  Then  came  mysterious  messages 
from  the  Central  Press  about  the  absence  of  any 
clew  to  identify  the  stranger.  He  hadn't  entered 
the  house  by  any  regular  way,  it  seemed  ;  unless,  in- 
deed, Mr.  Callingham  had  brought  him  home  him- 
self and  let  him  in  with  the  latch-key.  None  of  the 
servants  had  opened  the  door  that  evening  to  any 
suspicious  character;  not  a  soul  had  they  seen, 
nor  did  any  of  them  know  a  man  was  with  their 
master  in  the  library.  They  heard  voices,  to  be 
fre, — voices,  loud  at  times,  and  angrv, — but  they 
supposed  it  was  Mr.  Callinghim  talking  with  his 
daughter.  Till  roused  by  the  fatal  pistol  shot, 
the  gardener  said,  they  had  no  cause  for  alarm. 
Even  the  footmarks  the  stranger  might  have  'eft 
as  he  leaped  from  the  window  were  obliterated 
by  ihe  prints  of  the  gardener's  boots  as  he 
jumped  hastily  after  him.  The  only  person  who 
could  cast  any  light  upon  the  mystery  at  all  was 
clearly  Miss  Callingham,  who  was  in  the  room  at 
the  moment.  But  Miss  Callingham's  mind  ..as 
completely  unhinged  for  the  present  by  the 
nervous  shock  she  had  received  as  her  father  fell 
dead  before  her.  They  must  wait  a  few  days  till 
she  recovered  consciousness,  and  then  they  might 
confidently  hope  that  the  murderer  would  be 


THE   STORY  OF    THE   rilOTOGRAPHS, 


31 


of 

at 


1^ 


identified,  or  at  least  so  described  that  the  police 
eon  id  track  him. 

After  that,  1  read  the  report  of  the  coroner's 
inquest.  The  facts  tli  jre  elicited  added  nothin<T 
very  new  to  the  general  view  of  the  case.  Only, 
the  servants  remarked  on  examination,  there  w^as 
a  stranq;e  smell  of  chemicals  in  the  room  when 
they  entered ;  and  the  doctors  seemed  to  suggest 
that  the  smell  might  be  that  of  chloroform, 
mixed  with  another  very  powerful  drug  known  to 
affect  the  memory.  Miss  Callingham's  present 
case,  they  thought,  might  thus  perhaps  in  part  be 
accounted  for.  You  can't  imagine  how  curious 
it  was  for  me  to  see  myself  thus  impersonally 
discussed  ait  such  a  distance  of  timc^,  or  to  learn 
so  long  after  that  for  ten  da}  s  or  more  I  had  been 
the  central  object  of  interest  to  all  reading 
England.  My  name  was  bandied  about  without 
the  slightest  reserve.  I  trembled  to  see  how 
cavalierly  the  press  had  treated  me. 

As  1  went  on,  1  began  to  learn  more  and  more 
about  my  father.  He  had  made  money  in 
liustralia,  it  was  said,  and  had  come  to  live  at 
Woodbury  some  fourteen  years  earlier,  where  my 
mother  had  died  when  I  was  a  child  of  four;  and 
some  accounts  said  she  was  a  widow  of  fortune. 
My  father  had  been  interested  in  chemistry  and 
photography,  it  seemed,  and  had  lately  completed 
a  new  invention,  the  acmegraph,  for  taking  suc- 
cessive photographs  at  measured  intervals  of  so 


32 


RECALJ.ED    TO  LIFE, 


many  seconds  by  electric  lii;ht.  lie  was  a  grave, 
stern  man,  the;  i)apers  said,  more  feared  than  loved 
by  his  servants  and  neighbors;  but  nobody  about 
was  known  to  have  a  personal  grudge  against  him. 
On  the  contrary,  he  lived  at  peace  with  all  men. 
The  motive  for  the  murder  remained  tu  the  end 
a  complete  mj'stery. 

On  the  second  morning  of  the  inquest,  how- 
ever, a  curious  thing  happened.  The  police,  it 
a[)peared,  had  ^  ;'V'1  up  the  room  where  the 
murder  took  place,  d  allowed  nobody  to  enter 
it  till  the  inquiry  was  over.  But  after  the  jury 
came  round  to  view  the  room,  the  policeman  in 
charge  found  the  window  at  the  back  of  the 
house  had  been  recently  opened,  and  the  box 
with  the  photographic  apparatus  had  been  stolen 
from  the  library.  Till  that  moment  nobody  had 
attached  any  importance  to  the  presence  of  this 
camera.  It  hadn't  even  been  opened  and  exam- 
ined by  the  police,  who  had  carefully  noted  ever}^- 
thing  else  in  the  library.  But  as  soon  as  the  box 
was  missed  strange  questions  began  to  be  asked 
and  conjecturally  answered.  The  police  for  the 
first  tii'.:':  then  observed  that  though  it  was  half- 
past  eight  at  night  when  the  murder  occurred, 
and  the  lamp  was  not  lighted,  the  witnesses  who 
burst  first  into  the  room  described  all  they  saw  as 
if  they  had  seen  it  clearly.  They  spoke  of  things 
as  they  would  be  seen  in  a  very  bright  light, 
with  absolute  definiteness.     This  set  up  inquiry, 


THE   STORY  OF   THE  PHOTOGRAPHS. 


12^ 


m 


and  the  result  of  the  inquiry  was  to  \\\\\y^  out  the 
fact,  which  in  the  excitement  ot  tlie  moment  had 
escr"-)ed  the  notice  of  all  the  SL'i-vants,  that  as  they 
entered  the  room  and  stared  about  at  the  murder, 
the  electric  fla.^i  of  the  apparatus  was  actually  in 
operation.  Ikit  the  scene  itself  had  diverted  their 
attention  from  the  minor  matter  of  the  li^i;ht  that 
showed  it. 

The  Inspector  had  been  watchin^ij  me  narrowly 
as  I  read  these  extracts.  When  I  reached  that 
point,  he  broke  in  with  a  word  of  explanation. 

''Well,  that  put  me  on  the  track,  you  see,"  he 
said,  leaning  forward  once  more.  "I  thought  to 
myself,  if  the  light  was  acting,  then  the  whole 
apparatus  must  necessarily  have  been  at  work,  and 
the  scene  as  it  took  place  must  have  been  photo- 
graphed, act  by  act,  and  step  by  step,  exactly  as 
it  happened.  At  the  time,  the  murderer,  who- 
ever he  was,  can't  have  known  the  meaning  of 
the  flashes.  But  later,  he  must  have  come  to 
learn  in  some  \vay  what  the  electric  light  meant, 
and  must  have  realized,  sooner  than  we  did,  that 
there  in  the  box,  in  the  form  of  six  successive 
negatives  of  the  stages  in  the  crime,  was  the 
evidence  that  would  infallibly  convict  him  of  this 
murder."  He  stroked  his  mustache  thoughtfully. 
"And  to  thmk,  too,"  he  went  on,  with  a  somewhat 
sheepish  air,  "we  should  have  had  those  photo- 
graphs there  in  our  power  all  those  days  and 
nights,  and  have  let  them  in  the  end  slip  like  that 


34 


RECALLED    TO   LTER. 


through  our  fini^crs!  To  think  he  should  have 
found  it  out  sooner  than  we!  To  think  that  an 
amateur  like  the  murderer  should  have  outwitted 


US! 

«< 


f" 


But  how  do  you  know,"  I  crfcd,  "there  was 
ever  more  than  one  photograph?  How  do  you 
know  this  wasn't  the  only  negative?" 

"Because,"  the  Inspector  answered  quickly, 
pointing  to  a  figure  in  the  corner  of  the  proof, 
'do  you  see  that  six?  Well,  that  tells  the  tale. 
Each  plate  of  the  series  was  numbered  so  in  the 
apparatus.  Number  six  could  only  fall  into  focus 
after  numbers  one,  and  two,  and  three,  and  four, 
and  five,  had  first  been  photographed.  We've 
only  got  the  last — ancl  least  useful  for  our  purpose. 
There  must  have  been  five  earlier  ones,  showing 
every  stage  of  the  crime,  if  only  we'd  known  it." 

I  was  worked  up  now  to  a  strange  pitch  of 
excitement. 

"And  how  did  this  one  come  into  j^our  posses- 
sion?" I  asked,  all  breathless.  *Tf  you  managed 
to  lay  your  hands  on  one,  why  not  on  all  six  of 
them?" 

The  Inspector  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Ah,  that's  the  trouble !"  he  replied,  still  gazing 
at  me  hard.  "You  see,  it  was  this  way.  As  soon 
as  we  found  the  camera  was  missing,  we  came  to 
the  conclusion  the  murderer  must  have  returned 
to  The  Grange  to  fetch  it.  But  it  was  a  large 
and  heavy  box,  and  the  only  one  of  its  kind  as 


7' HE   STORY  OF    THE   PHOTOGRAPHS. 


35 


yet  manufactured;  so,  to  carry  it  away  in  his 
hands  would  no  doubt  have  led  to  instant  detec- 
tion. I  concluded,  therefore,  the  man  would  take 
off  the  box  entire,  so  as  to  prevent  the  danger  of 
removing  the  plates  on  the  spot ;  and  as  soon  as 
he  reached  a  place  of  safety  in  the  shrubbery,  he'd 
fling  away  the  camera,  either  destroying  the  in- 
criminating negatives  then  and  there  or  carrying 
them  off  with  him.  The  details  of  the  invention 
had  already  been  explained  to  me  by  your  father's 
instrument  maker,  who  set  up  the  clock-work  for 
him  from  his  own  designs ;  and  I  knew  that  the 
removal  of  the  plates  from  the  box  was  a  delicate, 
and  to  some  extent  a  difficult,  operation.  So  I 
felt  sure  they  could  only  have  been  taken  out  in 
a  place  of  comparative  safety,  not  far  from  the 
house ;  and  I  searched  the  shrubbery  carefully  to 
find  the  camera." 

"And  you  found  it  at  last?"  I  asked,  unable  to 
restrain  my  agitation. 

"I  found  it  at  last,"  he  answered,  "near  the  far 
end  of  the  grounds,  just  flung  into  the  deep  grass, 
behind  a  clump  of  lilacs.  The  camera  was  there 
intact,  but  five  plates  were  missing.  The  sixth, 
from  which  the  positive  you  hold  in  your  hand 
was  taken,  had  got  iammed  in  the  mechanism  in 
the  effort  to  remove  it.  Evidently  the  murderer 
had  tried  to  take  out  the  plates  in  a  very  great 
hurry  and  with  trembling  hands,  as  was  not  un- 
natural.    He  had  succeeded  with  five,  when  thq 


36 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


sixth  stuck  fast  in  the  groove  of  the  clock-work. 
Just  at  that  moment,  as  we  judged,  either  an 
alarm  was  raised  in  the  rear,  or  some  panic  fear 
seized  on  him.  Probably  the  fellow  judged  right 
that  the  most  incriminating  pictures  of  all  had 
by  that  time  been  removed,  and  that  the  last 
would  only  show  his  back,  if  it  included  him  at 
all,  or  if  he  came  into  focus.  Perhaps  he  had 
even  been  able  unconsciously  to  count  the  flashes 
at  the  moment,  and  knew  that  before  the  sixth 
flash  arrived  he  was  on  the  ledge  of  the  window. 
At  any  rate,  he  clearly  gave  up  the  attempt  to 
remove  the  sixth,  and  flung  the  whole  apparatus 
away  from  him  in  a  sudden  access  of  horror.  We 
guessed  as  much  both  from  the  appearance  of 
the  spot  where  the  grass  was  trampled  down,  and 
the  way  the  angle  of  the  camera  was  imbedded 
forcibly  in  the  soft  ground  of  the  shrubbery." 

"And  he  got  away  with  the  rest  !'*  I  exclaimed, 
following  it  up  like  a  story,  but  a  story  in  which 
I  was  myself  an  unconscious  character. 

*'No  doubt,"  the  Inspector  answered,  stroking 
his  chin  regretfully.  "And  what's  most  annoying 
of  all,  we've  every  reason  to  suppose  the  fellow 
stole  the  things  only  a  few  minutes  before  we 
actually  missed  them.  For  we  saw  grounds  for 
supposing  he  jumped  away  from  the  spot,  and 
climbed  over  the  wall  at  the  back,  cutting  his 
hands  as  he  went  with  the  bottle-glass  on  the  top 


THE   STORY  OF    T//E  r/fOTOGRAPlfS, 


37 


• 


to  prevent  intruders.  And  what  makes  us  think 
only  a  very  short  time  must  have  ehipsed  between 
the  removal  of  the  ])lates  and  the  moment  we 
came  upon  his  tracks  is  this — the  blood  from  his 
cut  hands  was  still  fresh  and  wet  upon  the  wall 
when  we  found  it." 

"Then  you  only  just  missed  him!"  I  exclaimed. 
"He  <^ot  off  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.  It's  wonder- 
ful, when  you  were  so  near,  you  shouldn't  have 
managed  to  overtake  him!  One  would  have 
thought  you  must  have  been  able  to  track  him  to 
earth  somehow !" 

"One  would  have  thought  so,"  the  Inspector 
answered,  rather  crestfallen.  "But  policen-'Mi, 
after  all,  are  human  like  the  rest  (  f  us.  We 
missed  the  one  chance  that  might  have  led  to  an 
arrest.  And  now,  what  I  want  to  ask  you  once 
more  is  this:  Reflecting  over  what  you've  heard 
and  read  to-day,  do  you  think  you  can  recollect — 
a  very  small  matter — whether  or  not  there  were 
several  distinct  flashes?" 

I  shut  my  eyes  once  more,  and  looked  hard 
into  the  past.  Slowly,  as  I  looked,  a  sort  of 
dream  seemed  to  come  over  me.  I  saw  it  vaguely 
now,  or  thought  I  saw  it.  Flash,  flash,  flash,  flash. 
Then  the  sound  of  the  pistol.  Then  the  Picture, 
and  the  Horror,  and  the  awful  blank.  I  opened 
my  eyes  again,  and  told  the  Inspector  so. 

"And  once  more,"  he  went  on,  in  a  very  insinu- 


38 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


atinjT  voice.  "Shut  your  eyes  again,  and  look 
back  upon  that  day.  Can't  you  remember 
whether  or  not,  just  a  moment  before,  you  saw 
the  murderer's  face  by  the  light  of  the  flashes?" 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  thought.  Again  the  flashes 
seemed  to  stand  out  clear  and  distinct.  But  no 
detail  supervened — no  face  came  back  to  me.  I 
felt  it  was  useless. 

"Impossible!"  I  said  shortly.  "It  only  makes 
my  head  swim.     I  can  remember  no  further." 

"I  see,"  the  Inspector  answered.  "It's  just  as 
Dr.  Wade  said.  Suggest  a  fact  in  your  past 
history,  and  you  may  possibly  remember  it ;  but 
ask  you  to  recall  anything  not  suggested  or  al- 
ready known,  and  all  seems  a  mere  blank  to  you ! 
You  haven't  the  faintest  idea,  then,  who  the 
murderer  was  or  what  he  looked  like?" 

I  rose  up  before  him  solemnly,  and  stared  him 
full  in  the  face.  I  was  wrought  up  by  that  time 
to  a  perfect  pitch  of  excitement  and  interest. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea,"  I  answered,  feel- 
ing myself  a  woman  at  last,  and  realizing  my  free- 
dom; "I  know  and  remember  no  more  of  it  tnan 
you  do.  But  from  this  moment  forth  I  shall  not 
rest  until  I've  found  him  out,  and  tracked  him 
down,  and  punished  him.  I  shall  never  let  my 
head  rest  in  peace  on  my  pillow  until  I've  dis- 
covered my  father's  murderer!" 

"That's  well,"  the  Inspector  said  sharply,  shut- 
ting hi\j  notes  up  to  go.     "If  you  persevere  in  that 


THE  STORY  OF   THE  PHOTOGRAPHS, 


39 


iniiid,  and  do  as  you  say,  wc  shall  soon  get  to  the 
Lxjttoiu  of  the  Woodbury  Mystery!** 

And  even  as  he  spoke  a  ki;y  turned  in  the  front 
door.      I  knew  it  was   /\unt  I'junia,  come  in   from 


her  markr'tinj^^ 


'i. 


Ill 


CHAPTER  V. 

I    lU'.COMI'   A   WOMAN. 

AUNT  EMMA  hurst  into  the  room,  all  horror 
ami  astoiiishinciU.  She  looked  at  the  In- 
spector for  a  few  seconds  In  hreathless  indiLjna- 
tion  ;  then  she  broke  out  in  a  tone  of  fu  ry  re- 
monstrance which  fairly  surprised  me: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  this  intrusion,  sir?  How 
dare  you  force  your  way  into  my  house  in  m\' 
absence?  How  dare  you  tMicoura^e  my  servants 
to  disobey  my  orders?  I  low  dare  you  imperil 
this  youn^  lady's  health  by  coming  here  to  talk 
witli  her?" 

She  turned  round  to  me  anxiously.  I  suppose 
I  was  very  flnslu'd   with  excitement  and  surprise. 

"My  d.irlinL;"  child,"  she  cried,  growin^^  pale  all 
at  once,  "Maria  should  ncvxM*  have  allowed  him  to 
come  inside  the  door!  You  should  have  stopped 
upstairs!  You  should  have  refused  to  see  him! 
I  shall  have  you  ill  a^ain  on  my  hands,  as  be- 
fore, after  this.  He'll  have  undone  all  the  good 
the  last  four  years  have  done  for  you  !" 

But  I  was  another  woman  now.  I  felt  it  in  a 
moment. 


/  ftECOVF.  A    tt'o.u.iy. 


41 


"Auntie,  ciiMrcst,"  I  atHwcrccI,  movifv^  across 
to  hiT,  and  l.iyiii^^  my  li.md  on  her  shoulder  to 
soothe  her  i)oor  rulllcd  nerves,  "  don't  be  the 
hjast  alarmed.  It's  I  wlio  am  to  blame,  and 
not  Maria.  I  told  her  to  let  this  ^^entleman  in. 
lie's  done  me  good,  not  harm.  I'm  so  ^lad  lo 
have  been  allowed  at  last  to  speaU  freely  about 
it!" 

Aunt  I'jnniii  shook  iill  over,  visibly  to  the 
naked  v.yc. 

"Vou'll  have  a  relapse,  my  child!"  she  ex- 
claimed, half  crying,  and  cli!v.;ing  to  me  in  her 
terror.  "You'll  forget  all  you  ve  learned!  you'll 
go  back  these  four  years  again!  Leave  my 
h(juse  at  once,  sir!  You  should  never  have 
entered  it !" 

I  stood  between  them  like  a  statue. 

"No,  stop  here  a  little  longer,"  I  said,  vvavl.  g 
my   hand   toward   him   imperiously.     "I   haven't 

yet  heard   all   it's   right    for   me   to  hear 

Auntie,  you  mistake.  I'm  a  woman  at  last.  I 
see  what  everything  means.  I'm  beginning  to 
remember  again.  For  four  years  that  hateful 
Picture  has  haunted  me  night  and  day.  I  could 
never  shut  my  eyes  for  a  minute  without  seeing 
it.  I've  longed  to  know  what  it  all  meant;  but 
whenever  I've  asked  I've  been  repressed  like  a 
baby.  I'm  a  baby  no  longer.  I  feel  myself  a 
woman.  What  the  Inspector  here  has  told  me 
already,  half  opens  my  eyes.     I  must  have  them 


42 


RECALLED    iC  LIFE. 


, 


Opened  altogether  now.  I  can't  stop  at  this 
point.     I'm  going  back  to  Woodbury." 

Aunt  Emma  clung  to  me  still  harder  in  a  per- 
fect agony  of  passionate  terror. 

"To  Woodbury,  my  darling?"  she  cried. 
"Going  back?     Oh,  Una,  it'll  kill  you  !" 

"I  think  not,"  the  Inspector  answered,  with  a 
v^ery  quiet  smile.  "Miss  Callingham  has  re- 
covered, I  venture  to  say,  far  more  profoundly 
than  you  imagine.  This  repression,  our  medical 
adviser  tells  us,  has  been  bad  for  her.  If  she's 
allowed  to  visit  freely  the  places  connected  with 
her  earlier  life,  it  may  all  return  again  to  her;  and 
the  ends  of  Justice  may  thus  at  last  be  served 
foi  us.  I  notice  al-'eady  one  hopeful  symptom  : 
Miss  Callingham  speaks  of  going  hack  to  Wootl- 
bury." 

Aunt  Emma  looked  up  at  him,  horrified.  All 
her  firmness  was  gone  now. 

"It'sjjw/  whoVe  put  this  into  her  head!"  she- 
exclaimed,  in  a  ferment  of  horror.  "She'd  a-never 
thought  of  it  herself.     You've  made  her  do  it!" 

"On  the  contrary,  Auntie,"  I  answered,  feeling 
my  ground  grow  surer  under  me  every  moment 
as  I  spoke,  "this  gentleman  has  never  even  by  the 
merest  hint  suggested  such  an  idea  to  my  nind. 
It  occurred  to  me  quite  spontaneously,  I  mttst 
find  out  now  who  was  my  father's  murderer!  All 
the  Inspector  has  told  me  seems  to  arouse  in  my 
brain  some   vague,  forgotten    chords.     It  brings 


/  BECOME  A    WOMAN. 


43 


iC 


back  to  me  faint  shadows.  I  feel  sure  if  I  went 
to  Woodbu»-y  I  should  remember  much  more. 
And  then,  you  must  see  for  yourself,  there's  an- 
other reason,  dcr,  that  ought  to  make  me  go. 
Nobody  but  I  ever  saw  the  murderer's  face.  It's 
a  duty  imposed  upon  me  from  without^  as  it  were, 
never  to  rest  again  in  peace  till  I've  recognized 
him." 

Aunt  Emma  collapsed  into  an  easy-chair.  Her 
face  was  deadly  pale.     Her  fingers  trembled. 

**If  you  go,  Una,"  she  cried,  playing  nervously 
with  her  gloves,'*!  must  go  with  you  too!  I 
must  take  care  of  you.     I  must  watch  over  you !" 

I  took  her  quivering  hand  in  mine  and  stroked 
it  gently.  It  was  a  soft  and  delicate,  white  little 
hand,  all  marked  inside  with  curious  ragged  scars 
that  I'd  known  and  observed  ever  since  I  first 
knew  her.  I  held  it  in  silence  for  a  minute. 
Somehow  I  felt  our  positions  were  reversed  to- 
day. This  interview  had  suddenly  brought  out 
what  I  know  now  to  be  my  own  natural  and  in- 
herent character — self-reliant,  active,  abounding 
in  initiative.  For  four  years  I  had  been  as  a  child 
in  her  hands,  through  mere  force  of  circumstances. 
My  true  self  came  out  now  and  asserted  its 
supremacy. 

"No,  dear,"  I  said,  smoothing  her  cheek ;  "I  shall 
go  alone.  I  shall  try  what  I  can  discover  and 
remember  myself  without  any  suggestion  or  ex- 
planation from  others.     I  want  to  find  out  how 


1" 

V 


44 


RECALLED   TO   LIFE. 


H 

''■u 


'  I 


i 


things  really  stand.  I  :;iuill  set  to  work  on  my 
own  account  to  unravel  this  mystery." 

"But  how  can  you  manage  things  by  yourself?'* 
Aunt  Emma  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands  de- 
spondently. "A  girl  of  your  age !  without  even 
a  maid  !  and  all  alone  in  the  world !  I  shall  be 
afraid  to  let  you  go.     Dr.  Wade  won't  aPow  it." 

I  drew  mysell"  up  very  straight,  and  realized 
the  position. 

"Aunt  Emma,"  I  said  plainly,  in  a  decided 
voice,  "I'm  a  full-grown  woman,  over  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  mistress  of  my  own  acts,  and  no 
longer  a  ward  of  yours.  I  can  do  as  I  like,  and 
neither  Dr.  Wade  nor  anybody  else  can  prevent 
me.  He  may  advise  me  not  to  go:  he  has  no 
power  to  order  me.  I'm  my  father's  heiress,  and 
a  person  of  independent  means.  I've  been  a 
cipher  too  long.  From  to-day  I  take  my  affairs 
wholly  into  my  own  hands.  I'll  go  round  at  once 
and  see  your  lawyer,  your  banker,  your  agent, 
your  tradesmen,  and  tell  them  fliat  henceforth  I 
draw  my  own  rents,  I  receive  my  own  dividends, 
I  pay  my  own  bills,  I  keep  my  own  banking  ac- 
count. And  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  I  set  out 
for  Woodbury." 

The  Inspector  turned  to  Aunt  Emma  with  a 
demonstrative  smile. 

"There,  you  see  for  yourself,"  he  said,  well 
pleased,  "what  this  interview  has  done  for  her!" 

But  Aunt  Emma  only  drew  back,  wrung  her 


/  BECOME  A    WOMAN, 


45 


^ent, 


well 


f" 


hands  again  in  impotent  despair,  and  stared  at 
him  blankly  like  a  wounded  creature. 

The  Inspector  took  up  his  hat  to  leave.  I 
followed  him  out  to  the  door,  and  shook  hands 
with  him  cordially.  The  burden  felt  lighter  on 
my  shoulders  already.  For  four  long  years  that 
mystery  had  haunted  me  day  and  night,  as  a  thing 
impenetrable,  incomprehensible,  not  even  to  be 
inquired  about.  The  mere  sense  that  I  might 
now  begin  to  ask  what  it  meant  seemed  to  make 
it  immediately  less  awful  and  less  burdensome  to 
me. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  Aunt 
Emma  sat  there  on  the  sofa,  crying  silently,  the 
very  picture  of  misery. 

"Una,"  she  said,  without  even  raising  her  eyes 
to  mine,  **the  man  may  have  done  as  he  says;  he 
may  have  restored  you  you.  mind  again;  but 
what's  that  to  me?  He's  lost  me  my  child,  my 
darling,  my  daughter!" 

I  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  Dear,  tender- 
hearted auntie!  she  had  always  been  very  ^^ood 
to  me.  But  I  knew  I  was  right,  for  all  that,  in 
becoming  a  woman — in  asserting  r\y  years,  my 
independence,  my  freedom,  my  duty.  To  \  /e 
shirked  it  any  longer  would  have  been  sheer 
cowardice.  So  I  just  kissed  her  silently,  and 
went  up  to  my  own  room — to  put  on  my  brown 
hat,  and  go  out  to  the  banker's. 

From  that  moment  forth,  one  fierce  desire  in 


46 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


-k' 


life  alone  possessed  me.  The  brooding  mystery 
that  enveloped  my  life  ceased  to  be  passive,  and 
became  an  active  goad,  as  it  were,  to  push  me 
forward  incessantly  on  my  search  for  the  run- 
away. I  was  the  creature  of  a  fixed  idea.  A  fiery 
energy  spurred  me  on  all  my  time.  I  was 
determined  now  to  find  out  my  father's  murderer. 
I  was  determined  to  shake  off  the  atmosphere  of 
doubt  and  forgetfulness.  I  was  determined  to 
recall  those  first  scenes  of  my  life  what  so  eluded 
my  memory. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  it  was  rather  a  burning 
curiosity  and  a  deep  sense  of  duty  that  urged 
me  on,  than  anything  I  could  properly  call  affec- 
tion— still  less,  revenge  or  malice.  I  didn't  re- 
member my  father  as  alive  at  all ;  the  one  thing 
I  could  recollect  about  him  was  the  ghastly  look 
of  that  dead  body,  stretched  at  full  length  on  the 
library  floor,  with  its  white  be?  d  all  dabbled  in 
the  red  blood  that  clotted  ii.  It  was  abstract 
zeal  for  the  discovery  of  the  truth  that  alone 
pushed  me  on.  This  search  beer  me  to  mr  hence- 
forth  an  end  and  aim  in  itself.  It  stood  out,  as 
it  were,  visibly  in  the  imperative  mood :  "Go 
here";  "go  there";  "do  this";  "try  that" ;  "leave 
no  stone  unturned  anywhere  till  you've  tracked 
down  the  murderer!"  Those  were  the  voices 
that  now  incessantly  though  inaudibly  pursued 
me. 

Next  day  I  spent  in  preparations  for  my  de- 


t 


/  BECOME  A    WOMAN, 


47 


parture.  I  would  hunt  up  Woodbury  now, 
though  fifty  Aunt  Emmas  held  their  gentle  old 
faces  up  in  solemn  warning  against  me.  The  day 
after  that  again,  I  set  out  on  my  task.  The  pull 
v.cis  hard.  1  had  taken  my  own  affairs  entirely 
into  my  own  hands  by  that  time,  and  had  provided 
myself  with  money  for  a  long  stay  at  Woodbury. 
J3ut  it  was  the  very  first  railway  journey  I  could 
ever  remember  to  have  made  alone ;  and  I  con- 
fess, when  I  found  myself  seated  all  by  myself  in 
a  first-class  carriage,  with  no  friend  beside  me,  my 
resolution  for  a  moment  almost  broke  down  again. 
It  was  so  terrible  to  feel  one's  self  boxed  up 
there  for  an  hour  or  two  alone,  with  that  awful 
Picture  staring  one  in  the  face  all  the  time  from 
every  fence  and  field  and  wall  and  hoarding.  It 
obliterated  Pears'  Soap ;  it  fixed  itself  on  the  yel- 
low face  of  Colman's  Mustard. 

I  went  by  Liverpool  Street,  and  drove  across 
to  Paddington.  I  had  never,  to  my  knowledge, 
been  in  London  before ;  and  it  was  all  so  new  to 
mc.  But  Liverpool  Street  was  even  newer  to  me 
than  Paddington,  I  noticed.  A  faint  sense  of 
familiarity  seemed  to  hang  about  the  Great 
Western  line.  And  that  was  not  surprising,  I 
thought,  as  I  turned  it  over;  for,  of  course,  in  the 
old  days,  when  we  lived  at  Woodbury,  I  must 
often  have  come  down  from  town  that  way  with 
my  father.  Yet  I  remembered  nothing  of  it  all 
definitely;    the    most   I   could   say  was  that   I 


48 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


seemed  dimly  to  recollect  havinjjj  been  there  be- 

fore — though  when  or  where  or  how,  I  liadn't  the 

fahitest  notion. 

1   was  early   at   Paddington.     Mr.    Browning's 

pies  somehow  failed  to  attract  me.     I  walked  up 

and  down  the  platform,  waiting  for  my  train.     As 

I  did  so,  a  boy  pasted  a  poster  on  a  board ;  it  was 

the    contents  sheet    of   one    of    the    baser   little 

society  papers.     Something  strange  in  it  caught 

my   eye.     I    looked    again    in    amazement.     Oh, 

great    heavens!     what    was    this   in   ]3ig    flaring 

letters? 

Miss  Una  Callingham  and  the  Woodbury  Mys- 
tery !  Is  She  Screening  the  Murderer?  A  Pos- 
sible Explanation  ! 

The  words  took  my  oreath  away.  They  were 
too  horrible  to  realize.  I  positively  couldn't 
speak.  I  went  up  to  the  book-stall,  laid  down 
my  penny  without  moving  my  lips,  and  took  the 
paper  in  my  hand  in  tremulous  silence. 

I  dared  not  open  it  there  and  then,  I  confess. 
I  waited  till  I  was  in  the  train,  and  on  my  way 
to  Woodbury. 

When  I  did  so,  it  was  worse,  even  worse  than 
my  fears.  The  article  was  short,  but  it  was  very 
hateful.  It  said  nothing  straight  out, — tlie  writer 
had  evidently  the  fear  of  the  law  of  libel  before 
his  eyes  as  he  wrote, — but  it  hinted  and  insinu- 
ated, in  a  detestable  undertone,  the  most  vile 
inuendoes.     A  Treasury  Doctor  and  a  Police  In- 


/  BECOME  A    fVOMAAT. 


49 


spector,  it  said,  had  lately  examined  Miss  Calling- 
ham  again,  and  found  her  intellect  in  every  resi)cct 
perfectly  normal,  except  that  she  couldn't  re- 
member the  face  of  her  father's  murderer.  Now, 
this  was  odd,  because,  you  see.  Miss  Callingham 
was  in  the  room  at  the  moment  the  shot  was 
fired;  and,  alone  in  the  world.  Miss  Callingham 
had  seen  the  face  of  the  man  who  firel  it.  Who 
was  that  man?  and  why  was  he  there,  unknown 
to  the  servants,  in  a  room  with  nobody  but  Mr. 
Callingham  and  his  daughter?  A  correspondent 
(who  preferred  to  guard  his  incognito)  had  sug- 
gested in  this  matter  some  very  searching  ques- 
tions: Could  the  young  man — for  it  was  allowed 
he  was  young — have  been  there  witli  Miss  Calling- 
ham when  Mr.  Callingham  entered?  Could  he 
have  been  on  terms  of  close  intimacy  with  the 
heroine  of  The  Grange  Mystery,  who  was  a  young 
lady — as  all  the  world  knew  from  her  photo- 
graphs—  of  great  personal  attractiveness,  and  who 
was  also  the  heiress  to  a  considerable  property? 
Could  he  have  been  there,  then,  by  appoint- 
ment, without  the  father's  knowledge?  Was  this 
the  common  case  of  a  clandestine  assignation? 
Could  the  father  have  returned  to  the  house  un- 
expectedly, at  an  inopportune  moment,  and  found 
his  daughter  there,  closeted  with  a  stranger — 
perhaps  with  a  man  who  had  already,  for  sufficient 
grounds,  been  forbidden  the  premises?  Such 
things  might  be,  in  this  world  that  we  live  in ;  he 


50 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


would  be  a  oold  man  who  would  df^ny  them  cate- 
gorically. Could  an  altercation  have  arisen  on 
the  father's  return,  and  the  fatal  shot  have  been 
fired  in  the  ensuing  scufifle?  And  could  the 
young  lady  then  have  feigned  this  curious  relapse 
into  that  Second  State  wo  had  all  heard  so  much 
about,  for  no  other  reason  than  to  avoid  giving 
evidence  at  a  trial  for  murder  against  her  guilty 
lover? 

These  were  suggestions  that  deserved  the 
closest  considonition  of  the  authorities  charged 
with  the  repression  of  crime.  Was  it  not  high 
tinio  that  the  inquest  on  Mr.  Callingham's  body 
should  be  formally  reopened,  and  that  the  young 
lady,  now  restored  (as  we  gathered)  to  her  own 
seven  senses,  should  be  closely  interrogated  by 
trained  legal  cross-examiners? 

I  laid  down  the  paper  with  a  burning  face.  I 
learned  now,  for  the  first  time,  how  closely  my 
case  had  been  watched,  how  eagerly  my  every 
act  and  word  had  been  canvassed.  It  was  hateful 
to  think  of  my  photograph  linving  been  exposed 
in  every  London  shop-window,  and  of  anonymous 
slanderers  being  permitted  to  indite  such  scandal 
as  this  about  an  innocent  woman.  But,  at  any 
rate,  it  had  the  effect  of  sealing  my  fate.  If  I 
meant  even  before  to  probe  this  mystery  to  the 
bottom,  I  felt  now  no  other  course  was  possibly 
open  to  me.  For  the  sake  of  my  own  credit, 
for  the  sake  of  my  own  good  fame,  I  must  find 
out  and  punish  my  father's  murderer. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


RELIVING   MY   LIFE. 


OFTEN,  as  you  walk  down  a  street,  a  man  or 
womrn  passes  you  by.  You  look  up  at  them 
and  say  to  yourself,  "I  seem  to  know  that  face'*; 
but  you  can  put  no  name  to  it,  attach  to  it  no 
definite  idea,  no  associations  of  any  sort.  That 
was  just  how  Woodbury  struck  me  when  I  first 
came  back  to  it.  The  houses,  the  streets,  the 
people,  were  in  a  way  familiar;  yet  I  could  no 
more  have  found  my  way  alone  from  the  station 
to  The  Grange  than  I  could  find  my  way  alone 
from  here  to  Kamschatka. 

So  I  drove  up  first  in  search  of  lodgings.  At 
the  station  even  several  people  had  bowed  or 
shaken  hands  with  me  respectfully  as  I  descended 
from  the  train.  They  came  up  as  if  they  thought 
I  must  recognize  them  at  once ;  there  was  recog- 
nition in  their  eyes;  but  when  they  met  my  blank 
stare,  they  seemed  to  remember  al'  about  it,  and 
merely  murmured  in  strange  tones : 

"Good-morning,  miss!  So  you're  here;  glad 
to  see  you've  come  back  again  at  last  to  Wood- 
bury." 

This  reception  dazzled  me.     It  was  so  strange, 

51   .       ■ 


5« 


kECAI.LED    TO  LIFE, 


so  uncanny.  I  was  glad  to  get  away  in  a  fly  by 
myself,  and  to  be  driven  to  lodgings  in  the  clean 
little  High  Street.  For  to  me,  it  wasn't  really 
"coming  back"  at  all :  it  was  coming  to  a  strange 
town,  where  every  one  knew  me,  and  /  knew  no- 
body. 

"You'd  like  to  go  to  Jane's,  of  course,"  the 
driver  said  to  me  with  a  friendly  nod  as  he 
reached  the  High  Street:  and  not  liking  to  con- 
fess my  forgetfulness  of  Jane,  I  responded  with 
warmth  that  Jane's  would,  no  doubt,  exactly 
suit  me. 

We  drew  up  at  the  door  of  a  neat  little 
house.     The  driver  rang  the  bell. 

"Miss  Una's  here,"  he  said  confidentially;  "and 
she's  looking  for  lodgings." 

It  was  inexpressibly  strange  and  weird  to  me, 
this  one-sided  recognition,  this  unfamiliar  famili- 
arity; it  gave  me  a  queer  thrill  of  the  super- 
natural that  I  can  hardly  express  to  you.  But  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do,  when  a  kindly-faced, 
middle-aged  English  upper-class  servant  rushed 
out  at  me,  open-armed,  and  hugging  me  hard  to 
her  breast,  exclaimed,  with  many  loud  kisses: 

"Miss  Una,  Miss  Una!  So  it's  yon,  dear;  so  it 
is!     Then  you've  come  back  at  last  to  us!" 

I  could  hardly  imagine  what  to  say  or  do. 
The  utmost  I  could  assert  with  truth  was,  Jane's 
face  wasn't  exactly  and  entirely  in  all  ways  un- 
familiar to  me.     Yet  I  could  see  Jane  herself  was 


REtTVLyG  MY  T.TFE. 


53 


SO  unfci<;nL'dly  dcH^^htod  to  sec  mc  ajrain,  that  I 
hadn't  the  licart  to  confess  IM  for^rottcn  her  very 
existence.  So  1  took  her  two  hands  in  mine — 
since  friendUness  begets  friendhness — and  hold- 
ing her  off  a  Httle  way,  for  fear  the  kisses  should 
be  repeated,  I  said  to  her  very  gravely : 

"You  see,  Jane,  since  tliose  da)'s  I've  had  a 
terrible  shock,  and  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to 
remember  anything.  It's  all  like  a  tliccim  to  me. 
You  must  forgive  me  if  1  don't  recall  it  just  at 
once  as  I  ought  to  do." 

"Oh!  yes,  miss,"  Jane  answered,  holding  my 
hands  in  her  delight  and  weeping  copiously. 
"We've  read  about  all  that,  of  course,  in  the 
London  newspapers.  Hut  there,  I'm  glad,  any- 
how, you  remembered  to  come  and  look  for  my 
lodgings.  I  think  I  should  just  have  sat  down 
and  cried  if  they  told  me  Miss  Una'd  come  back 
to  Woodbury,  and  never  so  much  as  asked  to  see 
me. 

I  don't  think  I  ever  felt  so  like  a  hypocrite  in 
my  life  before.  But  I  realized  at  least  that  even 
if  Jane's  lodgings  were  discomfort  embodied,  I 
must  take  them  and  stop  in  them,  while  I  re- 
mained there,  now.  Nothing  else  was  possible. 
I  coiildiit  go  elsewhere. 

Fortunately,  however,  the  rooms  turned  out  to 
be  as  neat  as  a  new  pin,  and  as  admirably  kept  as 
any  woman  in  England  could  keep  them.  1 
gathered  from  the  very  first,  of  course,  that  Jane 


54 


nF.CAllED    TO  UFE, 


bad  been  One  of  the  scrvcints  at  The  Granj^e  in 
the  clays  of  my  T'irst  State;  and  while  I  drank 
my  cup  of  t«'a,  Jane  herself  came  in  and  talked 
volubly  to  me,  disclosing  to  me,  parenthetically, 
the  further  fact  that  she  was  the  parlor-maid  at 
the  time  of  my  father's  murder.  That  gave  me  a 
clew  to  her  identity.  Then  she  was  the  witness 
(ireenfuld  who  ^ave  evidence  at  the  inquest!  I 
made  a  mental  note  of  that,  and  determined  to 
look  up  what  she'd  said  to  the  coroner,  in  the 
book  of  extracts  the  Inspector  gave  me,  as  soon 
as  I  got  alone  in  my  bedroom  that  evening. 

After  dinner,  however,  Jane  came  in  again,  with 
the  freedom  of  an  old  servant,  and  talked  to  me 
much  about  the  Woodbury  Mystery.  Gradually, 
as  time  went  on  that  night,  though  I  remembered 
nothing  definite  of  myself  about  her,  the  sense 
of  familiarity  and  friendliness  came  home  to  me 
more  vividly.  The  appropriate  emotion  seemed 
easier  to  rouse,  I  observed,  than  the  intellectual 
memory.  I  knew  Jane  and  I  had  been  on  very 
good  terms,  sometime,  somewhere.  I  talked  with 
her  easily,  for  that  I  had  a  consciousness  of 
companionship. 

By  and  by,  without  revealing  to  her  how  little 
I  could  recollect  about  her  own  personality,  I 
confessed  to  Jane,  by  slow  degrees,  that  the 
whole  past  was  still  gone  utterly  from  my 
shattered  memory.  I  told  her  I  knew  nothing 
except  the  Picture  and   the  facts  it  comprised; 


REUVrXG  MY  LIFE. 


55 


in 
nk 

y^ 

at 

a 

ss 


and  to  show  her  just  how  small  that  knowlcd^^c 
really  was,  I  showed  her  (iiuprmleiilly  iium^lj) 
tiie  piiotograph  the  Iiisj  eclor  had  left  with  me. 

Jane  looked  at  it  lon^'  aiul  slowly,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  Then  she  said  at  List,  after  a  dee|) 
pause,  in  a  very  hushed  voice: 

"Why,  how  dill  you  ^et  this?  It  wasn't  put 
in  the  papers." 

"No,"  I  answered  (piietly,  "it  wasn't  put  in  the 
papers,  l^'or  reasons  of  their  own,  the  police  kc|)t 
it  unpublished." 

Jane  gazed  at  the  proof  still  closer. 

"They  oujrhtn't  to  have  done  that,"  sIk!  said. 
"They  ought  to  have  sent  it  out  ever)'vvlKre 
broadcast — so  that  anybody  who  knew  the  man 
could  tell  him  by  his  back." 

That  seemed  tr)  me  such  obvious  good  sense 
that  I  wondered  to  myself  the  pf)lice  hadn't 
thought  long  since  of  it ;  but  I  supposed  tluy 
had  some  good  ground  of  their  c)wn  for  holding 
it  all  this  time  in  their  own  f)ossession. 

Jane  went  on  talking  to  me  still  for  many 
minutes  about  the  scene: 

"Ah,  yes;  that  was  just  how  he  lay,  poor  d<?ar 
gentleman!  And  the  book  on  the  chair,  too! 
Well,  did  you  ever  in  your  life  see  anything  so 
like!  And  to  think  it  was  taken  all  by  itself,  as 
one  might  say,  by  magic.  But  there!  >our  poor 
papa  was  a  wonderful  clever  man.  Such  things 
as    he   used   to   invent!     Such    ideas   and    such 


I;; 


S6 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


machines!  We  were  sorry  for  him,  though  we 
iihvays  thouijjht,  to  be  sure,  he  was  dreadful  severe 
with  you.  Miss  Una.  Such  a  gentleman  to  have 
his  own  way,  too — so  cold  and  reserved  like.  But 
one  mustn't  talk  nothing  but  good  about  the 
dead,  they  say.  And  if  he  was  a  bit  hard,  he 
was  more  than  hard  treated  for  it  in  the  end,  poor 
gentleman !" 

It  interested  me  to  get  these  half  sidelights  on 
my  father's  character.  Knowing  nothing  of  him, 
as  I  did,  save  the  solitary  fact  that  he  was  the 
white-haired  gentleman  I  saw  dead  in  my  Picture, 
I  naturally  wanted  to  learn  as  much  as  I  could 
from  this  old  servant  of  ours  as  to  the  family 
conditions. 

"Then  you  thought  him  harsh  in  the  servants' 
hall?"  I  said  tentatively  to  Jane.  "You  thought 
him  hard  and  unbending?" 

"Well,  there,  mi:}s,"  Jane  ran  on,  putting  a 
cushion  to  my  back  tenderly, — it  was  strange  to 
be  the  recipient  of  so  much  delicate  attention 
from  a  perfect  stranger, — "not  exactly  what 
you'd  call  harsh  to  its  ourselves,  you  know :  he 
was  a  good  master  enough,  as  long  as  one  did 
what  was  ordered,  though  he  was  a  little  bit 
fidgetty.  But  to  you,  we  all  thought  he  was 
always  rather  hard.  People  said  so  in  Wood- 
bury. And  yet,  in  a  way,  I  don't  know  how  it 
was,  he  always  seemed  more'n  half  afraid  of  you. 
He  was  careful  about  your  health,  and  spoiled 


RELIVING  MY  LIFE, 


57 


and  petted  you  for  that :  yot  he  was  always  puU- 
ini;  you  up,  you  know,  and  looking  after  what 
you  did :  and  for  one  thing,  I  remember,  there's 
many  a  time  you  were  sent  to  ued  when  you  were 
a  good  big  girl  for  nothing  on  earth  else  but  be- 
cause he  heard  you  talking  to  us  in  the  hall  about 
Australia." 

"Talking  to  you  about  Australia!"  I  cried, 
pricking  my  ears.  "Why,  what  harm  was  there 
in  that?  Why  on  earth  didn't  he  want  me  to 
talk  about  Australia?" 

"Ah!  what  harm  indeed?"  Jane  echoed  blandly. 
"That's  what  we  often  used  to  say  among  oun 
selves  downstairs.  But  Mr.  Callingham,  he  was 
always  that  way,  miss — so  strict  and  particular. 
He  said  he'd  forbidden  you  to  say  a  word  to 
anybody  about  that  confounded  country;  and 
you  must  do  as  you  were  told.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  grudge  against  Australia,  though  it 
was  there  he  made  his  money.  And  he  always 
would  have  his  own  way,  your  father  would." 

While  she  spoke,  I  looked  hard  at  the  white 
head  in  the  photograph.  Even  as  I  did  so,  a 
thought  occurred  to  me  that  had  never  occurred 
before.  Both  in  my  mental  Picture,  and  in  look- 
ing at  the  photograph  when  I  saw  it  first,  the  feel- 
ing that  was  uppermost  in  my  mind  was  not 
sorrow,  but  horror.  I  didn't  think  with  affection 
and  regret  and  a  deep  sense  of  bereavement 
about  my    father's   murder.     The  emotional  ac- 


Fn 


58 


RECALLED    TO   LIFE. 


companinicnt  that  had  stamped  itself  upon  the 
very  fiber  of  my  soul  was  not  pain  but  awe.  I 
think  my  main  feeling  was  a  feeling  that  a  foul 
crime  had  taken  place  in  the  house,  not  a  feeling 
that  I  had  lost  a  very  dear  and  near  relative. 
Rightly  or  wrongly,  I  drew  from  this  the  inference, 
which  Jane's  gossip  confirmed,  that  I  had 
probably  rather  feared  than  loved  my  father. 

It  was  strange  to  be  reduced  to  such  indirect 
evidence  on  such  a  point  as  that ;  but  it  was  all  I 
could  get,  and  I  had  to  be  content  with  it. 

Jane,  leaning  over  my  shoulder,  looked  hard 
at  the  photograph  too.  I  could  see  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  back  of  the  man  who  was  seen 
disappearing  through  the  open  window.  He  was 
dressed  like  a  gentleman,  in  knickerbockers  and 
jacket,  as  far  as  one  could  judge,  for  the  even- 
ing light  rather  blurred  that  part  of  the  picture. 
One  hand  was  just  waved,  palm  open,  behind 
him.  Jane  regarded  it  hard.  Then  she  gave  an 
odd  little  start : 

"Why,  just  look  at  that  hand !"  she  cried,  with 
a  tremor  of  surprise.  "Don't  you  see  what  it  is? 
Don't  you  think  it's  a  woman's?" 

I  gazed  back  at  her  incredulously. 

"Impossible,"  I  answered,  shaking  my  head. 
"It  belongs,  as  clear  as  day,  to  the  man  you  see  in 
the  photograph.  How  on  earth  could  his  hand  be 
a  woman's  then,  I'd  like  to  know?  I  can  see  the 
ghjrt-guff,'* 


RELIVING  MY  LIFE. 


59 


the 
.     I 

foul 
i-'ling 
tive. 
nee, 
had 


"Why,  yes,"  Jane  answered,  with  si;n^lj  co  n- 
mon  sense;  "it's  dressed  Hke  a  man,  of  course, 
and  it's  a  man  to  look  at;  but  the  hand's  a 
woman's,  as  true  as  I'm  standing  here.  Why 
mightn't  a  woman  dress  in  a  man's  suit  on  pur- 
pose? And  perhaps  it  was  just  because  they 
were  so  sure  it  was  a  man  as  did  it,  that  the  police 
has  gone  wrong  so  long  in  trying  to  find  the 
murderer." 

I  looked  hard  at  the  hand  myself.  Then  I  shut 
my  eyes,  and  thought  of  th.^  corresponding  object 
in  my  mental  Picture.  The  result  fairly  staggered 
me.  The  impression  in  each  cast  was  exactly 
the  same.  It  was  a  soft  and  delicate  hand,  very 
white  and  womanlike.  But  was  it  really  a 
woman's?  I  couldn't  feel  quite  sure  in  my  own 
mind  about  that ;  but  the  very  warning  Jane  gave 
me  seemed  to  me  a  most  useful  one.  It  would 
be  well,  after  all,  to  keep  one's  mind  sedulously 
open  to  every  possible  explanation,  and  to  take 
nothing  for  granted  as  to  the  murderer's  person- 
ality. 


M 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  GRANGE  AT  WOODBURY. 


{STOPPED  for  three  weeks  in  Jane's  lodgings; 
and  before  the  end  of  that  time  Jane  and  I 
had  got  upon  the  most  intimate  footing.  It  was 
partly  her  kindliness  that  endeared  me  to  her, 
and  her  constant  sense  of  continuity  with  the 
earlier  days  which  I  had  quite  forgotten ;  but  it 
was  partly  too,  I  felt  sure,  a  vague  revival  within 
my  own  breast  of  a  familiarity  that  had  long  ago 
subsisted  between  us.  I  was  coming  to  m3'self 
again,  on  one  side  of  my  nature.  Day  by  day  I 
grew  more  certain  that  while  facts  had  passed 
away  from  me,  appropriate  emotion  remained 
vaguely  present.  Among  the  Woodbury  people 
that  I  met,  I  recognized  none  to  say  that  I  knew 
them,  but  I  knew  almost  at  first  sight  that  I  liked 
this  one  and  disliked  that  one.  And  in  every 
case  alike,  when  I  talked  the  matter  over  after- 
ward w^ith  Jane,  she  confirmed  my  suspicion  that 
in  my  First  State  I  had  liked  or  disliked  just 
those  persons  respectively.  My  brain  was  upset, 
but  my  heart  remained  precisely  the  same  as 
even 

00 


THE  GRANGE  AT   WOODBURY, 


6i 


dgings ; 
and  I 

It  was 
to  her, 
th   the 

but  it 
within 
^g  ago 
mj^seJf 
day  I 

massed 

lained 

»eopIe 

knew 

h'ked 

svery 

ifter- 

that 

just 
pset, 
e  as 


On  my  second  morning  i  went  up  to  The 
Grange  with  her.  The  house  was  still  unlet. 
Since  the  day  of  the  murder,  nobody  cared  to 
live  in  it.  The  garden  and  shrubbery  had  been 
sadly  neglected :  Jane  took  me  out  of  the  way  as 
we  walked  up  the  path,  to  show  me  the  place 
where  the  photographic  apparatus  had  been 
found  embedded  in  the  grass,  and  where  the 
murderer  had  cut  his  hands  getting  over  the  wall 
in  his  frantic  agitation.  The  wall  was  pretty  high 
and  protected  with  bottle-glass.  I  guessed  he 
must  have  been  tall  to  scramble  over  it.  That 
seemed  to  tell  against  Jane's  crude  idea  that  a 
woman  might  have  done  it. 

But  when  I  said  so  to  Jane,  she  met  me  at  once 
with  the  crushing  reply,  "Perhaps  it  wasn't  the 
same  person  that  came  back  for  the  box."  I  saw 
she  was  right  again.  I  had  jumped  at  a  conclu- 
sion. In  cases  like  this  one  must  leave  no 
hypothesis  untried,  jump  at  no  conclusions  of  any 
sort.  Clearly,  that  woman  ought  to  have  been 
made  a  detective. 

As  I  entered  the  house  the  weird  sense  of 
familiarity  that  pursued  me  throughout  rose  to  a 
very  high  pitch.  I  couldn't  fairly  say,  indeed, 
that  I  remembered  the  different  rooms.  All  I 
could  say  with  certainty  was  that  I  had  seen 
them  before.  To  this  there  were  three  excep- 
tions,— the  three  that  belonged  to  my  Second 
State, — the  library,  my  bedroom,  and  the  hall  and 


62 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


staircase.  The  first  was  indelibly  printed  on  my 
memory  as  a  component  part  of  the  Picture,  and 
I  found  my  recollection  of  every  object  in  the 
room  almost  startling  in  its  correctness.  Only, 
there  was  an  alcove  on  one  side  that  I'd  quite 
forgotten,  and  I  saw  why  most  clearly.  I  stood 
with  my  back  to  it  as  I  looked  at  the  Picture. 
The  other  two  bits  I  remembered  as  the  room  in 
which  I  had  had  my  first  great  illness,  and  the  pas- 
sage down  which  I  had  been  carried  or  helped 
when  I  was  taken  to  Aunt  Emma's. 

I  had  begun  to  recognize  now  that  the  emo- 
tional impression  made  upon  me  by  people  and 
things  was  the  only  sure  guide  I  still  possessed 
as  to  their  connection  or  association  with  my  past 
history,  and  the  rooms  at  The  Grange  had  each 
in  this  way  some  distinctive  characteristic.  The 
library,  of  course,  was  the  chief  home  of  the 
Horror  which  had  hung  upon  my  spirit  even  dur- 
ing the  days  when  I  hardly  knew  in  any  intelli- 
gible sense  the  cause  of  it.  But  the  drawing-room 
and  dining-room  both  produced  upon  my  mind  a 
vague  consciousness  of  constraint.  I  was  dimly 
aware  of  being  ill  at  ease  and  uncomfortable  in 
them.  My  own  bedroom,  on  the  contrary,  gave 
me  a  pleasant  feeling  of  rest  and  freedom  and 
security ;  while  the  servants*  hall  and  the  kitchen 
seemed  perfect  paradises  of  liberty. 

**AhJ  many*s  the  time,  miss,"  Jane  said,  with  a 
sigh,  looking  over  at  the  empty  grate,  "you'd 


^' 


THE   GRANGE  AT   WOODBURY. 


63 


come  down  here  to  make  cakes  or  piKldings,  and 
lau^li  and  joke  like  a  child  with  Mary  an'  me.  I 
often  used  to  say  to  Emily — her  as  was  cook  here 
before  Ellen  Smith, — *Miss  Una's  never  so  happy 
as  when  she's  down  here  in  t'le  kitchen.'  And 
'That's  true  what  you  say,'  says  Emily  to  me, 
many  a  time  and  often." 

That  was  exactly  the  impression  left  upon  my 
own  mind.  I  began  to  conclude,  in  a  dim,  power- 
less way,  that  my  father  must  have  been  a  some- 
what stern  and  unsympathetic  man ;  that  I  had 
felt  constrained  and  uncomfortable  in  his  presence 
upstairs,  and  had  often  been  pleased  to  get  away 
from  his  eye  to  the  comparative  liberty  and  ease 
of  my  own  room  or  of  the  maid-servants'  quarters. 

At  last,  in  the  big  attic  that  had  once  been  the 
nursery,  I  paused  and  looked  at  Jane.  A  queer 
sensation  came  over  me. 

'*Jane,"  I  said  slowly,  hardly  liking  to  frame 
the  words,  "there's  something  strange  about  this 
room.     He  wasn't  cruel  to  me,  was  he?" 

"Oh!  no,  miss,"  Jane  answered  promptly. 
*'He  wasn't  never  what  you  might  call  exactly 
cruel.  He  was  a  very  good  father,  and  looked 
after  you  well ;  but  he  was  sort  of  stern  and 
moody  like — would  have  his  own  way,  and  didn't 
pay  no  attention  to  fads  and  fancies,  as  he  called 
'em.  When  you  were  little,  many's  the  time  he 
sent  you  up  here  for  punishment — disobedience 
and  such  like." 


(i 


!i 


I  h 
i 


64 


/RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


I  took  out  the  photograph  and  tried,  as  it  were, 
to  think  of  my  father  as  ah'vc  and  with  his  eyes 
open.  I  couldn't  remember  the  eyes.  Jane  tokl 
me  they  were  blue;  but  I  think  what  she  said 
was  the  sort  of  impression  the  face  produced 
upon  me.  A  man  not  unjust  or  harsh  in  his 
dealings  with  myself,  but  very  strong  and  master- 
ful. A  man  who  would  have  his  own  way  in 
spite  of  anybody.  A  father  who  ruled  his 
daughter  as  a  vessel  of  his  making,  to  be  done 
as  he  would  with,  and  be  molded  to  his  fashion. 

Still,  my  visit  to  the  Grange  resulted  in  the 
end  in  casting  very  little  light  upon  the  problem 
before  me.  It  pained  and  distressed  me  greatly, 
but  it  brought  no  new  elements  of  the  case  into 
view;  at  best,  it  only  familiarized  me  with  the 
scene  of  action  of  the  tragedy.  The  presence  of 
the  alcove  was  the  one  fresh  feature.  Nothing 
recalled  to  me  as  yet  in  any  way  the  murderer's 
features.  I  racked  my  brain  in  vain;  no  fresh 
image  came  up  in  it.  I  could  recollect  nothing 
about  the  man  or  his  antecedents. 

I  almost  began  to  doubt  that  I  would  ever  suc- 
ceed in  reconstructing  my  past,  when  even  the 
sight  of  the  home  in  which  I  had  spent  my 
childish  days  suggested  so  few  new  thoughts  or 
*  ideas  to  me.  •  ' 

For  a  day  or  two  after  that  I  rested  at  Jane's 
lest  I  should  disturb  my  brain  too  much.  Then 
I  called  once  more  on  the  doctor  who  had  made 


.jir- 


THE  GRAKCE  AT  WOOniiVRY. 


6S 


the  post-mortem  on  my  father,  and  p;ivcn  evi- 
dence at  the  inquest,  to  see  if  anything  he 
could  say  might  recall  my  lapsed  memory. 

The  moment  he  came  into  the  room — a  man 
about  fifty,  close-shaven  and  kindly-looking — I 
recognized  him  at  once,  and  held  out  my  hand  to 
liim  frankly.  Me  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  good  medical  stare,  and  then  wrung  my 
hand  in  return  with  extraordinary  warmth  and 
effusion.  I  could  sec  at  once  he  retained  a  most 
pleasing  recollection  of  my  First  State,  and  was 
really  glad  to  see  mc. 

"What,  you  remember  me  then,  Una!"  he 
cried,  with  quite  fatherly  delight.  "You  haven't 
forgotten  me,  my  dear,  as  you've  forgotten  all  the 
rest,  have  you?" 

It  was  startling  to  be  called  by  one's  Christian 
name  like  that,  and  by  a  complete  stranger,  too; 
but  I  was  getting  quite  accustomed  now  to  these 
little  incongruities. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  remember  you  perfectly,"  I 
answered,  half-grieved  to  distress  him,  "though  I 
shouldn't  have  known  your  name,  and  didn't  ex- 
pect to  see  you.  You're  the  doctor  who  attended 
me  in  my  first  great  illness — the  illness  with 
which  my  present  life  began — just  after  the 
murder."  ^ 

He  drew  back,  a  little  crestfallen. 

"Then  that's  all  you  recollect,  is  it?"  he  asked. 
"You   don't   remember    me  before,   dear?    Not 


I 


'II 


66 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


li 


Dr.  Marten,  who  used  to  take  you  on  his  knee 
wlien  you  were  a  tiny  Httle  ^irl,  and  brinpf  you 
lollipops  from  town  to  the  great  detriment  of 
your  dii^cstion,  and  ^et  into  rows  with  your  poor 
father  for  indult^in^  you  and  spoiling  you?  You 
must  surely  renieniber  me?" 

I  shook  my  head  slowly.  I  was  sorry  to  disap- 
point him,  but  it  was  necessary  before  all  things 
to  get  at  the  bare  truth. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  I  answered.  "Do  please  for- 
give me!  You  must  have  read  in  the  papers,  like 
everybody  else,  of  the  very  great  chancre  that  has 
so  long  come  over  me.  Bear  in  min  I  can't  re- 
member anything  at  all  that  occurred  before  the 
murder.  That  first  illness  is  to  me  the  earliest 
recollection  of  childhood." 

He  gazed  across  at  me  compassionately. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  like  a 
very  affectionate  friend,  "it's  much  better  so.  You 
have  been  mercifully  spared  a  great  deal  of  pain. 
Una,  when  I  first  saw  you  at  The  Grange  after 
your  father's  death,  I  thanked  Heaven  you  had 
been  so  seized.  I  thanked  Heaven  the  world  had 
become  suddenly  a  blank  to  you.  I  prayed  hard 
you  might  never  recover  your  senses  again,  or 
at  least  your  memory.  And  now  that  you're 
slowly  returned  to  life  once  more,  against  all 
hope  or  fear,  I'm  heartily  glad  it's  in  this  peculiar 
way.  I'm  heartily  glad  all  the  past's  blotted  out 
for  you.     You  can't  understand  that,  my  child? 


i 


77/A'   C, RANGE  AT    WOODHrKY,  67 

Ah,  no,  very  likely  not.  Hut  I  think  it's  much  the 
best  for  you  that  all  your  first  life  should  be  wholly 
forgotten."  He  paused  for  a  second.  Then  ho 
added  slowly:  **If  you  remembered  it  all,  the 
sense  of  the  tray^edy  would  be  far  more  acute  and 
poignant  even  than  at  present." 

"Perhaps  so,"  I  said  resolutely;  "but  not  the 
sense  of  mystery.  ItV  that  that  appalls  me  so! 
I'd  rather  know  the  truth  than  be  so  wrapped  up 
in  the  incomprehensible." 

He  looked  at  me  pityingly  once  more. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said,  in  the  same  gentle 
and  fatherly  voice,  "you  don't  wholly  understand. 
It  doesn't  all  come  home  to  you.  I  can  s-  e 
clearly,  from  what  Inspector  Wolferstan  told  me, 
after  his  visit  to  you  the  other  day " 

I  broke  in,  in  surprise. 

"Inspector  Wolferstan!"  I  cried.  "Then  he 
came  down  here  to  see  you,  did  he?" 

It  was  horrible  to  find  how  all  my  movements 
were  discussed  and  chronicled. 

"Yes,  he  came  down  here  to  see  me  and  talk 
things  over,"  Dr.  Marten  went  on,  as  calmly  as  if 
it  were  mere  matter  of  course.  "And  I  could  see 
from  what  he  said  you  were  still  spared  much. 
For  instance,  you  remember  it  all  only  as  an 
event  that  happened  to  an  old  man  with  a  long 
vi^hite  beard.  You  don't  fully  realize,  except  in- 
tellectually, that  it  was  your  own  father.  You're 
saved,  as  a  daughter,  the   misery   and   horror  of 


68 


RRCAILED    TO  LIFE. 


i 


thinking  and  feeling  it  was  your  father  who  lay 
dead  there." 

"That's  quite  true,"  I  answered.  "I  admit  that 
I  can't  feel  it  all  as  deeply  as  I  ought.  But  none 
the  less,  I've  come  down  here  to  make  a  violent 
effort.  Let  it  cost  what  it  may,  I  must  get  at  the 
truth.  I  wanted  to  see  whether  the  sight  of  Tiie 
Grange  and  of  Woodbury  may  help  me  to  recall 
the  lost  scenes  in  my  memory." 

To  my  immense  surprise,  Dr.  Marten  rose  from 
his  seat,  and  standing  up  before  me  in  a  perfect 
agony  of  what  seemed  like  terror,  half  mixed  with 
affection,  exclaimed  in  a  very  earnest  and  resolute 
voice : 

"Oh,  Una,  my  child,  whatever  you  do — I  beg 
of  yo'-.  T  Implore  you — don't  try  to  recall  the  past 
at  all !     Don't  attempt  it !     Don't  dream  of  it !" 

"Why  not?"  I  cried,  astonished.  "Surely  it's 
my  duty  to  try  and  find  out  my  father's  mur- 
derer!" 

Instead  of  answering  me,  he  looked  about  him 
for  half  a  minute  in  suspense,  as  if  doubtful  what 
next  to  do  or  to  say.  Then  he  walked  across 
with  great  deliberation  to  the  door  of  the  room, 
and  locked  and  double-locked  it  with  furtive 
alarm,  as  I  interpreted  his  action. 

So  terrified  did  he  seem,  indeed,  that  for  a  mo- 
ment the  idea  occurred  to  me  in  a  very  vague 
way — Was  I  talking  with  the  murderer?  Had 
the  man  who  himself  committed  the  crime  con- 


rim  cKAiVCK  AT  tvoonRrrnr. 


<9 


lay 


ducted  the  post'inortcni,  atul  put  Justice  off  the 
scent?  And  was  I  now  practically  at  the  mercy 
of  the  criminal  I  was  tryin^^  t(j  track  down?  The 
thought  for  a  second  or  two  made  mo  feel  terribly 
uncomfortable.  Hut  I  glanced  at  his  back  and  at 
his  hands,  and  reassured  myself.  That  broad, 
short  man  was  not  the  slim  figure  of  my  Picture 
and  of  the  photograi)h.  Those  large  red  hands 
were  not  the  originals  of  the  small  and  delicate 
white  palm  just  displayed  at  the  back  in  both 
those  strange  documents  uf  the  mysterious  mur- 
der. 

The  doctor  came  over  again,  and  drew  his  chair 
close  to  mine. 

"Una,  my  child,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  love  you 
very  much,  as  if  you  were  my  own  daughter.  I 
always  loved  you  and  admired  you,  and  was 
sorry — oh,  so  sorry! — for  you.  YouVe  quite  for- 
gotten who  I  am;  but  I've  not  forgotten  you. 
Take  what  I  say  as  coming  from  an  old  friend, 
from  one  who'loves  you  and  has  your  interest  at 
heart.  For  Heaven's  sake,  I  implore  you,  my 
child,  make  no  more  inquiries.  Try  to  forget — 
not  to  remember.  If  you  do  recollect,  you'll  be 
sorry  in  the  end  for  it." 

"Why  so?"  I  asked,  amazed,  yet  somehow  feel- 
ing in  my  heart  I  could  trust  him  implicitly. 
"Why  should  the  knowledge  of  the  true  circum- 
stances of  the  case  make  me  more  unhappy  than 
I  am  at  present?" 


70 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


I 


i 


li 


He  gazed  harder  at  me  than  ever. 

"Because,"  he  replied,  in  slow  tones,  weighing 
each  word  as  he  spoke,  **you  may  find  that  the 
murder  was  committed  by  some  person  or  per- 
sons you  love  or  once  loved  very  much  indeed. 
You  may  find  it  will  rend  your  very  heart-strings 
to  see  that  person  or  those  persons  punished. 
You    may    find    the   circumstances  were  wholly 

otherwise  than  you  imagine  them  to  be 

Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  my  dear.  .  Without  your 
aid,  nothing  more  can  be  done.  Don't  trouble 
yourself  to  put  the  bloodhounds  on  the  track  of 
some  unhappy  creature  who  might  otherwise  es- 
cape. Don't  rake  it  all  up  afresh.  Bury  it — bury 
it— bury  it." 

He  spoke  so  earnestly  that  he  filled  me  with 
vague  alarm. 

"Dr.  Marten,"  I  said  solemnly,  "answer  me 
just  one  question.  Do  you  know  who  was  the 
murderer?" 

"No,  no!"  he  exclaimed,  starting  once  more. 
"Thank  heaven,  1  can't  tell  you  that !  I  don't 
know.  I  know  nothing.  Nobody  on  earth 
knows  but  the  two  who  were  present  on  the  night 
of  the  murder,  I  feel  sure.  And  of  those  two, 
ore's  unknown,  and  the  other  has  forgotten." 

"But  you  suspect  who  he  is?"  I  put  in,  probing 
the  secret  curiously. 

He  trembled  ^  .\,'bly. 

"I  suspect  who  he  is,"  he  replied,  after  a  mo- 


*rf  i^  ■■. 


THE  GRANGE  AT   WOODBURY, 


71 


iighing 
lat  the 
Dr  per- 
ndeed. 
strings 
riished. 
wholly 

•     •      •     • 

t  your 
rouble 
'ack  of 
^ise  es- 
— bury 

e  with 

er  me 
as   the 

more. 

don't 

earth 

:  night 

t  two, 

l." 

robing 


a  mo- 


ment's hesitation.  "But  I  have  never  communi- 
cated, and  will  never  communicate,  my  suspi- 
cions to  anybody,  not  even  to  you.  I  will  only 
say  this:  the  person  whom  I  suspect  is  one  with 
whom  you  may  now  have  forgotten  all  your  past 
relations,  but  whom  you  would  be  sorry  to  pun- 
ish if  you  recovered  your  memory.  I  formed  a 
strong  opinion  at  the  time  who  that  person  was. 
I  formed  it  from  the  nature  and  disposition  oT  the 
wound,  and  the  arrangement  of  the  objects  in  the 
room  when  I  was  called  in  to  see  your  father's 
body." 

"And  you  never  said  so  at  the  inquest!"  I 
cried,  indignant. 

He  looked  at  me  hard  again.  Then  he  spoke 
in  a  very  slow  and  earnest  voice: 

"For  your  sake,  Una,  and  for  the  sake  of  your 
affections,  I  held  my  peace,"  he  said.  "My  dear, 
the  suspicion  was  but  a  very  slender  one.  I  had 
nothing  to  go  upon.  And  why  should  I  have 
tried  to  destroy  your  ha]:)pincss?" 

That  horrible  article  in  the  penny  society  paper 
came  back  to  my  mind  once  more  with  hideous 
suggest iveness.     I  turned  to  him  almost  fiercely. 

"So  far  as  you  know,  Dr.  Marten,"  I  asked, 
"was  I  ever  in  love?  Had  I  ever  an  admirer? 
Was  I  ever  engaged  to  any  one?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  a  sort  of 
smile  of  relief. 

"How  should  I  know?"  he  answered.    "Admir- 


7* 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


ers? — yes,  dozens  of  them;  I  was  one  myself. 
Lovers? — who  can  say?  But  I  advise  you  not  to 
push  the  inquiry  further." 

I  questioned  him  some  minutes  longer,  but 
could  get  nothing  more  from  him.  Then  I  rose 
to  go. 

**Dr.  Marten,"  I  said  firmly,  **if  I  remember  all, 
and  if  it  wrings  my  heart  to  remember,  I  tell  you 
I  wil'  give  up  that  man  to  justice  all  the  same ! 
I  think  I  know  myself  well  enough  to  know  this 
much  at  least,  that  I  never,  never  could  stoop 
either  to  love  or  to  screen  a  man  who  could  com- 
mit such  a  foul  and  dastardly  crime  as  this  one." 

He  took  my  hand  fervently,  raised  it  with 
warmth  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  twice  over. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  with  tears  dropping  down 
his  gentle  old  cheeks,  ''this  is  a  very  great  mys- 
tery— a  terrible  mystery.  But  I  know  you  speak 
the  truth.  I  can  see  you  mean  it.  Therefore,  all 
the  more  earnestly  do  I  beg  and  beseech  you,  go 
away  from  Woodbury  at  once,  and  as  long  as  you 
live  think  no  more  about  it." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


»» 


A   VISION   OF   DEAD   YEARS. 

1"^riE  interview^  with  Dr.  Marten  left  mc  very 
niiicli  disquieted.  But  it  wasn't  thu  only  dis- 
quieting thing  that  occurred  at  Woodbury.  Be- 
fore I  left  the  place  I  happened  to  go  one  day 
into  Jane's  own  little  sitting-room.  Jane  was 
einxious  I  should  see  it;  she  wanted  me  to  know 
all  her  house,  she  said,  for  the  sake  of  old  times: 
and  for  the  sake  of  those  old  times  that  I  couldn't 
remember,  but  when  I  knew  she'd  been  kind  to 
me,  I  went  in  and  looked  at  it. 

There  was  nothing  very  peculiar  about  Jane's 
little  sitting-rocm  ;  just  the  ordinary  English  land- 
lady's parlor.  You  know  the  type :  square  table 
in  the  middle;  bright  blue  vases  on  the  mantel- 
piece; chromo-lithograph  from  the  Illustrated  Lon- 
don Nezus  on  the  wall ;  rickety  whatnot  with  glass- 
shaded  wax-flowers  in  the  recess  by  the  window. 
But  over  in  one  corner  I  chanced  to  observe  a 
framed  photograph  of  early  execution,  which 
hung  faded  and  dim  there.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause my  father  was  such  a  scientific  amateifr, 
but  photography,  I  found  out  in  time,  struck  the 

73 


74 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


I 


I 


i    \ 


key-note  of  my  history  in  every  chapter.  I  didn't 
know  why,  but  this  particuhir  picture  attracted 
me  stranj^cly.  It  came  from  The  Grange,  Jane 
told  me:  she'd  hunted  it  out  in  the  attic  over  the 
front  bedroom  after  the  house  was  shut  up.  It 
belonged  to  a  lot  of  my  father's  early  attempts  that 
were  locked  in  a  box  there.  ''He'd  always  been 
trying  experiments  and  things,"  she  said,  ''with 
photography,  poor  gentleman." 

Faded  and  dim  as  it  was,  the  picture  riveted 
my  eyes  at  once  by  some  unknown  power  of  at- 
traction.  I  gazed  at  it  long  and  earnestly.  It 
represented  a  house  of  colonial  aspect,  square, 
wood-built,  and  veranda-girt,  standing  alone 
among  strange  trees  whose  very  names  and  as- 
pects were  then  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  which  I 
nowadays  know  to  be  Australian  eucalj^ptuses. 
On  the  steps  of  the  veranda  sat  a  lady  in  deep 
mourning.  A  child  played  by  her  side,  and  a  col- 
lie dog  lay  curled  up  still  and  sleepy  in  the  fore- 
ground. The  child,  indeed,  stirred  no  chord  of 
any  sort  in  my  troubled  brain ;  but  my  heart 
came  up  into  my  mouth  so  at  sight  of  the  lady, 
that  I  said  to  myself  all  at  once,  in  my  awe,  ''That 
must  surely  be  my  mother!" 

The  longer  I  looked  at  it,  the  more  was  I  con- 
vinced I  must  have  judged  aright.  Not  indeed 
that  in  any  true  sense  I  could  say  I  remembered 
her  face  or  figure.  I  was  so  young  when  she  died, 
according  to  everybody's  account,  that  even  if  I'd 


A    VISION  OF  DEAD    YEARS. 


75 


remained  in  my  First  State  I  could  hardly  have 
retained  any  vivid  recollection  of  her.  But  both 
lady  and  house  brought  up  in  me  once  more,  to 
some  vague  degree,  that  strange  consciousness  of 
familiarity  I  had  noticed  at  The  Grange;  and 
what  was  odder  still,  the  sense  of  wont  seemed 
even  more  marked  in  the  Australian  cottage  than 
in  the  case  of  the  house  which  all  probability 
would  have  Inclined  one  beforehand  to  think  I 
must  have  remembered  better.  If  this  was  in- 
deed my  earliest  home,  then  I  seemed  to  recollect 
it  far  more  readily  than  my  later  one. 

I  turned  trembling  to  Jane,  hardly  daring  to 
frame  the  question  that  rose  first  to  my  lips. 

"Is  that — my  mother?"  I  faltered  out  slowly. 

But  there  Jane  couldn't  help  me.  She'd  never 
seen  the  lady,  she  said. 

''When  first  I  come  to  The  Grange,  miss,  you 
see,  your  mother'd  been  buried  a  year;  there  was 
only  you  and  Mr.  Callingham  in  family.  And  I 
never  saw  that  photograph,  neither,  till  I  picked 
it  out  of  the  box  locked  up  in  the  attic.  The 
little  girl  might  be  you,  like  enough,  when  you 
lool  at  it  sideways;  and  yet  again  it  mightn't. 
But  the  lady  I  don't  know.  I  never  saw  your 
mother." 

So  I  was  fain  to  content  myseU  with  pure  con- 
jee* ure. 

All  day  long,  however,  the  new  picture  haunted 
me  almost  as  persistently  as  the  old  one. 


76 


RECALLED    TO  LLFE, 


That  night  I  went  to  sleep  fast,  and  slept  for 
some  hours  heavily.  I  woke  with  a  start.  I  had 
been  dreaming  very  hard.  And  my  dream  was 
peculiarly  clear  and  lifelike.  Never  since  the  first 
night  of  my  new  life — the  night  of  the  murder — 
had  i  dreamed  such  a  dream,  or  seen  dead  objects 
so  vividly.  It  came  out  in  clear  colors,  like  the 
terrible  Picture  that  had  haunted  me  so  long. 
And  it  affected  me  strangely.  It  was  a  scene, 
rather  than  a  dream — a  scene,  as  at  the  theater; 
but  a  scene  in  which  I  realized  and  recognized 
everything. 

I  stood  on  the  steps  of  a  house, — a  white 
wooden  house,  with  a  green-painted  veranda, — 
the  very  house  I  had  seen  that  afternoon  in  the 
faded  photograph  in  Jane's  little  sitting-room. 
But  I  didn't  think  of  it  at  first  as  the  house  in  the 
old  picture.  I  thought  of  it  as  home — our  own 
place — the  cottage.  The  steps  seemed  to  me 
very  high,  as  in  childish  recollection.  A  lady 
walked  about  on  the  veranda  and  called  to  me :  a 
lady  in  a  white  gown,  like  the  lady  in  the  photo- 
graph, only  younger  and  prettier,  and  dressed 
much  more  daintily.  But  I  didn't  think  of  her 
as  that  either:  I  called  her  mamma  to  myself.  I 
looked  up  into  her  face,  oh,  ever  so  much  above 
me.  I  must  have  been  very  small  indeed  when 
that  picture  fust  occurred  to  me.  There  was  a 
gentleman,  too,  in  a  white  linen  coat,  who  pinched 
my  mamma's  ear,  and  talked  softly  and  musically. 


I 


A    VISION  OF  DEAD    YEAA'S. 


11 


But  I  didn't  think  of  him  quite  so ;  I  knew  he  was 
my  papa;  I  played  about  his  knees,  a  little  scam- 
pering child,  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  teased 
him  and  laughed  at  him.  My  papa  looked  down 
at  mc,  and  called  me  a  little  kitten,  and  rolled  me 
over  on  my  back,  and  fondled  me  and  laughed 
with  me.  There  were  trees  growing  all  about, 
big  trees  with  long  gray  leaves;  the  same  sort  of 
trees  as  the  ones  in  the  photograph.  But  I  didn't 
remember  that  at  first ;  in  my  dream,  and  in  the 
first  few  minutes  of  my  waking  thought,  I  knew 
them  at  once  as  the  big  blue-gum  trees. 

I  awoke  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  the  picture  per- 
sisted. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  intuition,  the 
truth  flashed  upon  me  all.  at  once.  My  dream 
was  no  mere  dream,  but  a  revelation  in  my  sleep. 
It  was  my  intellect  working  unconsciously  and 
spontaneously  in  an  automatic  condition.  For 
the  very  first  time  in  my  life,  since  the  night  of 
the  murder,  I  had  really  remembered  something 
that  occurred  before  it. 

This  was  a  scene  of  my  First  State.  In  all 
probability  it  was  my  earliest  true  childish  recol- 
lection. I  sat  up  in  bed,  appalled.  I  dareduot 
call  aloud  or  ring  for  Jane  to  come  to  me.  But  if 
I'd  seen  a  ghost,  it  could  hardly  have  affected  me 
more  profoundly  than  this  ghost  of  my  own  dead 
life  thus  brought  suddenly  back  to  me.  Gazing 
away  across  some  illimitable  vista  of  dim  years,  I 


»8 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


remembered  this  one  scene  as  something  that 
once  occurred,  long  ago,  to  my  very  self,  in  my 
own  experience.  Then  came  a  vast  gulf,  an  un- 
bridged  abyss;  and  after  that,  with  a  vividness  as 
of  yesterday,  the  murder. 

I  held  my  ears  and  crouched  low,  sitting  up  in 
my  bed  in  the  dark.  But  the  dream  seemed  to  go 
on  still;  it  remained  with  me  distinctly. 

The  more  I  thought  it  over,  the  more  certain  it 
appeared  as  part  of  my  own  experience.  Putting 
two  and  two  together,  I  made  sure  in  my  own 
mind  this  was  a  genuine  recollection  of  my  life  in 
Australia.  I  was  born  there,  I  knew;  that  I  had 
learned  from  everybody.  But  I  could  distinctly 
remember  having  lived  there  now.  It  came  back 
to  me  as  memory.     The  dream  had  reinstated  it. 

And  it  was  the  sight  of  the  photograph  that 
had  produced  the  dream.  This  was  curious,  very. 
A  weird  idea  came  across  me.  Had  I  begun,  in 
all  past  efforts  to  remember,  at  the  wrong  end? 
Instead  of  trying  to  recollect  the  circumstances 
that  immediately  preceded  the  murder,  ought  I  to 
have  set  out  by  trying  to  reinstate  my  First  Life, 
chapter  by  chapter,  and  verse  by  verse,  from  child- 
hood upward?  Ought  I  to  start  by  recalling,  as 
far  as  possible,  my  very  earliest  recollections  in 
my  previous  existence,  and  then  gradually  work 
up  through  all  my  subsequent  history  to  the  date 
of  the  murder? 


U 


%:: 


A    VISION  OF  DEAD    YEARS, 


79 


The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  convinced 
was  1  that  that  was  the  right  procedure. 

I.t  was  certainly  sii^nificant  that  this  vague, 
chilch'sh  recollection  of  something  whicli  might 
have  happened  when  1  was  just  about  two  years 
old  should  be  the  very  first  thing  to  recur  to  my 
memory.  Yet  so  appalled  and  alarmed  was  I  by 
the  weirdness  of  this  sudden  apparition,  loom- 
ing up,  as  it  were,  all  by  itself  in  the  depths  of  my 
consciousness,  that  I  hardly  dared  bring  myself 
to  think  of  trying  to  recall  any  other  scenes  of 
that  dead  and  past  existence.  The  picture  rose 
Hke  an  exhalation,  hanging  unrelated  in  mid-air, 
a  mere  mental  mirage;  and  it  terrified  me  so 
much,  that  I  shrank  unutterably  from  the  effort 
of  calling  up  another  of  like  sort  to  follow  it. 


Ill 


CHAITKR  IX. 


IIATKI'UL   SUSPICIONS. 


THE  rest  of  that  iii^ht  I  lay  awake  in  my  bed, 
the  scene  in  the  veranda  by  the  bij^  blue-j^uni 
trees  haunting  mc  all  the  time,  much  as  in  earlier 
days  the  Picture  of  the  murder  had  pursued  and 
haunted  me.  Early  in  the  morning  I  rose  up, 
and  went  down  to  Jane  in  her  little  parlor.  1 
longed  for  society  in  my  awe.  I  needed  human 
presence.  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  left  alone  by  my- 
self with  all  these  pressing  and  encompassing 
mysteries. 

"Jane,"  I  said,  after  a  few  minutes*  careless  talk, 
— for  I  didn't  like  to  tell  her  about  my  wonderful 
dream, — "where  exactly  did  you  find  the  picture 
of  that  house  hanging  over  in  the  corner  there?" 

"Lor'  bless  your  heart,  miss,"  Jane  answered, 
"there's  a  whole  boxful  of  them  at  The  Grange. 
Nobody  ever  cared  for  them.  They're  up  in  the 
top  attic.  They  were  locked  till  your  papa  died, 
and  then  they  were  opened  by  order  of  the  ex- 
ecutors. Some  of  'em's  faded  even  worse  than 
that  one,  and  none  of  'em's  very  good;  but  I 
picked  this  one  out  because  it  was  better  worth 


irATKFUL  SUSP/CIOIVS. 


•f 


framing  for  my  room  than  most  of  'cm.  The  cx« 
ecutors  took  no  notice  when  they  found  what 
they  was.  They  opened  the  box  to  see  if  it  was 
dockyments." 

"VW'll,  Jane,"  I  said,  "I  shall  ^o  up  and  bring 
them  every  one  away  with  me.  It's  possible  they 
may  help  me  to  recollect  things  a  bit."  I  drew 
my  hand  across  my  forehead.  "It  all  seems  so 
hazy,"  I  went  on.  "Yet  wIumi  I  see  things  again, 
I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  almost  reco<'iiizL(l  them." 

So  that  very  morning  we  went  up  together  (I 
wouldfi't  go  alone),  and  got  the  rest  of  the  photo- 
graphs— very  faded  positives  from  old-fashioned 
plates,  most  of  them  representing  persons  and 
places  I  had  never  seen ;  and  a  few  of  them 
apparently  not  taken  in  England. 

I  didn't  look  them  all  over  at  once  just  then. 
I  thought  it  best  not  to  do  so.  I  would  give  my 
memory  every  possible  chance.  Take  a  few  at  a 
time,  and  see  what  effect  they  produced  on  me.  ' 
Perhaps — though  I  shrank  from  the  bare  idea 
with  horror — they  might  rouse  in  my  sleep  such 
another  stray  effort  of  spontaneous  reconstruc- 
tion. Yet  the  last  one  had  cost  me  much  nervous 
wear  and  tear — much  mental  agony. 

A  few  days  ;iftcr,  I  went  away  from  Woodbury. 
I  had  learnvxl  [n  the  moment,  I  thought,  all  that 
Woodbury  could  teach  me ;  and  I  longed  to  get 
free  again  for  a  while  from  this  pervading  atmos- 
phere of  mystery.     At  Aunt  Emma's,  at  least,  all 


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Si 


RECALLED   TO  LJFE, 


was  plain  and  above  board.  I  would  go  back  to 
Barton-on-the-Sea,  and  rest  there  for  a  while, 
among  the  heathery  hills,  before  proceeding  any 
further  on  my  voyage  of  discovery. 

But  I  took  back  Jane  with  me.  I  was  fond  of 
Jane  now.  In  those  two  short  weeks  I  had 
learned  to  cling  to  her.  Though  I  remembered 
her,  strictly  speaking,  no  more  than  at  first,  yet 
the  affection  I  must  have  borne  her  in  my  First 
State  seemed  to  revive  in  me  very  easily,  like  all 
other  emotions.  I  was  as  much  at  home  with 
Jane,  indeed,  as  if  I  had  known  her  for  years. 
And  this  wasn't  strange;  for  I  hadVx\o\\x\  her  for 
years,  in  point  of  fact;  and  though  I'd  forgot- 
ten most  of  those  years,  the  sense  of  familiarity 
they  had  inspired  still  lived  on  with  me  uncon- 
sciously. I  know  now  that  memory  resides 
chiefly  in  the  brain,  while  the  emotions  are  a 
wider  endowment  of  the  nervous  system  in  gen- 
eral ;  so  that  while  a  great  shock  may  obliterate 
whole  tracts  in  the  memory,  no  power  on  earth 
can  ever  alter  altogether  the  sentiments  and  feel- 
ings. 

As  for  Jane,  she  was  only  too  glad  to  come 
with  me.  There  were  no  lodgers  at  present,  she 
said ;  and  none  expected.  Her  sister  Elizabeth 
would  take  care  of  the  rooms,  and  if  any  stranger 
came,  why,  Lizzie  would  telegraph  down  at  once 
for  her.     So  I  wrote  to  Aunt  Emma  to  expect  us 


HATEFUL  SUSflCtONS. 


ss 


both  next  day.  Aunt  Emma's,  I  knew,  was  a 
home  where  I  or  mine  were  always  welcome. 

Jane  had  never  seen  Aunt  Emma.  There  had 
been  itwA  between  the  families  while  my  father 
lived,  so  she  didn't  visit  The  Grange  after  my 
mother's  death.  Aunt  Emma  had  often  ex- 
plained to  me  in  part  how  all  that  happened.  It 
was  the  one  point  in  our  family  history  on  which 
she'd  ever  been  explicit :  for  she  had  a  grievance 
there ;  and  what  woman  on  earth  can  ever  sup- 
press her  grievances?  It's  our  feminine  way  to 
air  them  before  the  world,  as  it's  a  man's  to  bury 
them  deep  in  his  own  breast  and  brood  over 
them. 

My  mother,  she  told  me,  had  been  a  widow 
when  my  father  married  her — a  rich  young  widow. 
She  had  gone  away,  a  mere  girl,  to  Australia  with 
her  first  husband,  a  clergyman,  who  was  lost  at 
sea  two  or  three  years  after,  on  the  voyage  home 
to  England  without  her.  She  had  one  little  girl 
by  iier  first  husband,  but  the  child  died  quite 
young,  and  then  she  narried  my  father,  who  met 
her  first  in  Australia  while  she  waited  for  news  of 
the  clergyman's  safety.  Her  family  always  disap- 
proved of  the  second  marriage.  My  father  had 
no  money,  it  seemed ;  and  mamma  was  well  off, 
having  means  of  her  own  to  start  with,  like  Aunt 
Emma,  and  having  inherited  also  her  first  hus- 
band's property,  which  was   very   considerable. 


I 


94 


/RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


He  had  left  it  to  his  little  girl,  and  after  her  to  his 
wife ;  so  that  first  my  father,  and  then  I  myself, 
came  in,  in  the  end,  to  both  the  little  estates, 
though  my  mother's  had  been  settled  on  the  chil- 
dren of  the  first  marriage.  Aunt  Emma  always 
thought  my  father  had  married  for  money :  and 
she  said  he  had  been  hard  and  unkind  to  mamma: 
not  indeed  cruel — he  wasn't  a  cruel  man — but 
severe  and  willful.  He  made  her  do  exactly  as 
he  wished  about  everything,  in  a  masterful  sort 
of  way  that  no  woman  could  stand  against.  He 
crushed  her  spirit  entirely,  Aunt  Emma  told  me; 
she  had  no  will  of  her  own,  poor  thing ;  his  indi- 
viduality was  so  strong,  that  it  overrode  my 
mother's  weak  nature  rough-shod.  Not  that  he 
was  rough.  He  never  scolded  her ;  he  never  ill- 
treated  her;  but  he  said  to  her  plainly,  "You  are 
to  do  so  and  so" ;  and  she  obeyed  like  a  child. 
She  never  dared  to  question  him. 

So  Aunt  Emma  had  always  said  my  mother  was 
badly  used,  especially  in  money  matters — the 
money  being  all,  when  one  came  to  think  of  it, 
her  own  or  her  first  husband's ;  and,  as  a  conse- 
quence, auntie  was  never  invited  to  The  Grange 
during  my  father's  lifetime. 

When  we  reached  Barton-on-the-Sea,  Jane  and 
I,  on  our  way  from  Woodbury,  Aunt  Emma  was 
waiting  at  the  station  to  meet  us.  To  my  great 
disappointment,  I  could  see  at  first  sight  she 
didn't  care  for  Jane ;  and  I  could  also  see  at  first 


HATEFUL  SUSPICIONS. 


8S 


sight  Jane  didn't  care  for  her.  This  was  a  serious 
blow  to  Hie,  for  I  leaned  upon  those  two  more 
than  I  leaned  upon  any  one ;  and  I  had  far  too 
few  friends  in  the  world  of  my  own  to  afford  to 
do  without  any  one  of  them. 

In  the  evening,  however,  when  I  wtMit  up  to  my 
own  room  to  bed,  Jane  came  up  to  help  me  as  she 
always  did  at  Woodbury.  I  began  at  once  to  tax 
her  with  not  liking  Aunt  Emma.  With  a  little 
hcsit-^  Mon,  Jane  admitted  that  at  first  sight  she 
hadn't  felt  by  any  means  disposed  to  care  for 
her.  I  pressed  her  hard  as  to  why.  Jane  held 
off  and  prevaricated.  That  roused  my  curiosity; 
you  see,  I'm  a  woman.  I  insisted  upon  know- 
ing. 

"Oh,  miss,  I  can't  tell  you !"  Jane  cried,  grow- 
ing red  in  the  face,  *T  can't  bear  to  say  it  out. 
You  oughtn't  to  ask.  It'll  hurt  you  to  know  I 
even  thought  such  a  thing  of  her!" 

"You  7nust  tell  me,  Jane,"  I  exclaimed,  with  a 
cold  shudder  of  terror,  half  guessing  what  she 
meant.  "Don't  keep  me  in  suspense.  Let  me 
know  what  it  is.  I'm  accustomed  to  shocks  now. 
I  know  I  can  stand  them." 

Jane  answered  nothing  directly.  She  only  held 
out  her  coarse  red  hand  and  asked  me,  with  a  face 
growing  pale  as  she  spoke : 

"Where's  that  picture  of  the  murder?" 

I  produced  it  from  my  box,  trembling  inwardly 
all  over. 


86 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


Jane  darted  one  finger  demonstratively  at  a 
point  in  the  photograph. 

"Whose  hand  is  thatr  she  asked  with  a  strange 
e'arnestness,  putting  her  nail  on  the  murderer's. 

The  words  escaped  me  in  a  cry  of  horror,  al- 
most before  I  was  aware  of  them : 

"Aunt  Emma's!"  I  said,  gasping.  "I  never 
noticed  it  before." 

Then  I  drew  back  and  stared  at  it  in  speechless 
awe  and  consternation. 

It  was  quite,  quite  true.  No  use  in  denying  it. 
The  figure  that  escaped  through  the  window  was 
dressed  in  man's  clothes,  to  be  sure,  and  as  far  as 
one  could  judge  from  the  foreshortening  and  the 
peculiar  stoop,  had  a  man's  form  and  stature. 
But  the  hand  was  a  woman's — soft,  and  white, 
and  delicate;  nay  more,  the  hand,  as  I  said  in  my 
haste,  was  line  for  line  Aunt  Emma's. 

In  a  moment  a  terrible  sinking  came  over  me 
from  head  to  foot.  I  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf. 
Could  this,  then,  be  the  meaning  of  Dr.  Marten's 
warning  that  I  should  let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  lest  I 
should  be  compelled  to  punish  some  one  whom  I 
loved  most  dearly?  Had  Fate  been  so  cruel  to 
me,  that  I  had  learned  to  cling  most  in  my  Sec- 
ond State  to  the  very  criminal  whose  act  had 
blotted  out  my  First  ?  Had  I  grown  to  treat  like 
a  mother  my  father's  murderer? 

Aunt  Emma's  hand!  Aunt  Emma's  hand! 
That  was  Aunt  Emma's  hand,  every  touch  and 


HATEFUL  SUSPICIONS. 


87 


every  line  of  it.  But  no !  where  were  the  marks, 
those  well-known  marks  on  the  pahn?  I  took  up 
the  big  magnifying-glass  with  which  I  had  often 
scanned  that  photograph  close  before.  Not  a 
sign  or  a  trace  of  them.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and 
called  up  again  the  mental  Picture  of  the  murder. 
I  looked  hard  at  the  phantom-hand  in  it,  that 
floated  like  a  vision  all  distinct  before  my  mind's 
eye.  It  was  flat  and  smooth  and  white.  Not  a 
scar — not  a  sign  on  it.  I  turned  round  to  Jane, 
that  too  natural  detective. 

"No  no!"  I  cried  hastily,  with  a  quick  tone  of 
triumph.  "Aunt  Emma's  hand  is  marked  on  the 
palm  with  great  gashes  and  cuts.  This  one's 
smooth  as  smooch  can  be.  And  it's  the  one  I 
can  see  in  the  Picture  within  me!" 

Jane  drew  back  with  a  startled  air,  and  opened 
her  mouth,  all  agog,  to  let  in  a  deep  breath. 

"The  wall!"  she  said  slowly.  "The  bottle- 
glass,  don't  you  know !  The  blood  on  the  top ! 
Whoever  did  it  climbed  over  and  tore  his  hands. 
Or  her  hands,  if  it  was  a  woman !  That  would 
account  for  the  gashes." 


This  was  more  than  I  could  endure.  The  coin- 
cidence was  too  crushing.  I  bent  down  my  head 
on  my  arms  and  cried  silently,  bitterly.  I  hated 
Jane  in  my  heart  for  even  suggesting  it.  Yet  I 
couldn't  deny  to  myself  for  a  moment  the  strength 
and  suggestiveness  of  her  half-spoken  argument. 


88 


RECALLED  TO  LLFE, 


I 


i:' 


Not  that  for  a  second  I  believed  it  true.  1 
could  never  believe  it.  Aunt  Emma,  so  gentle, 
so  kindly,  so  sweet :  incapable  of  hurting  any  liv- 
ing thing;  the  tenderest  old  lady  that  breathed 
upon  earth ;  and  my  own  mother's  sister,  whom  I 
loved  as  I  never  before  loved  any  one!  Aunt 
Emma  the  murderess!  The  bare  idea  was  pre- 
posterous! I  couldn't  entertain  it.  My  whole 
nature  revolted  from  it. 

And  indeed,  how  very  slight,  after  all,  was  the 
mere  scrap  of  evidence  on  which  Jane  ventured 
to  suggest  so  terrible  a  charge!  A  man — in 
man's  clothes — fairly  tall  and  slim,  and  appar- 
ently dark-haired,  but  stooping  so  much  that  he 
looked  almost  humpbacked :  how  different  from 
Aunt  Emma,  with  her  womanly  figure,  and  her 
upright  gait,  and  her  sweet  old  white  head ! 
Why,  it  was  clearly  ridiculous. 

And  yet,  the  fact  remained  that  as  Jane 
pointed  to  the  Picture  and  asked,  "Whose  hand 
is  that?"  the  answer  came  up  all  spontaneously 
to  my  lips,  without  hesitation,  "Aunt  Emma's!" 

I  sat  there  long  in  my  misery,  thinking  it  over 
to  myself.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  couldn't 
go  and  confide  to  Aunt  Emma's  ear  this  new  and 
horrible  doubt — which  was  no  doubt  after  all,  for 
I  knewW.  was  impossible.  I  hated  Jane  for  sug- 
gesting it;  I  hated  her  for  telling  me.  Yet  I 
couldn't  be  left  alone.     I  was  far  too  terrified. 

"Oh,  Jane,"  I  cried,  looking  up  to  her,  and  yet 


HATEFUL  susriaoNS. 


89 


despising  myself  for  saying  it,  "you  must  stop 
here  to-night  and  sleep  with  me.  If  I'm  left  by 
myself  in  this  room  alone,  I  know  I  shall  go  mad — 
I  can  feel  it— I'm  sure  of  it!"  Jane  stopped  with 
me  and  soothed  me.  She  was  certainly  very  kind. 
Yet  I  felt  in  a  dim,  underhand  sort  of  way  it  was 
treason  to  Aunt  Emma  to  receive  her  caresses  at 
all  after  what  she  had  said  to  me.  Though  to  be 
sure  it  was  I,  not  she,  who  spoke  those  hateful 
words.  It  was  I  myself  who  had  said  the  hand 
was  Aunt  Emma's. 

As  I  lay  awake  and  thought,  the  idea  flashed 
across  me  suddenly,  could  Jane  have  any  grudge 
of  her  own  against  Aunt  Emma?  Was  this  a 
deliberate  plot?  What  did  she  mean  by  her 
warnings  that  I  should  keep  my  mind  open? 
Why  had  she  said  from  the  very  first  it  was  a 
woman's  hand?  Did  she  want  to  set  me  against 
my  aunt?  And  was  Dr.  Marten  in  league  with 
her?  In  my  tortured  frame  of  mind,  I  felt  all 
alone  in  the  world.  I  covered  my  head  and 
sobbed  in  my  misery.  I  didn't  know  who  were 
my  friends  and  who  were  against  me. 

At  last,  after  long  watching,  I  dozed  off  into  an 
uneasy  sleep.  Jane  had  already  been  snoring  long 
beside  me.  I  woke  up  again  with  a  start.  I  was 
cold  and  shuddering.  I  had  dreamed  once  more 
the  same  Australian  dream.  My  mamma  as  be- 
fore stood  gentle  beside  me.  She  stooped  down 
and  smoothed  my  hair,    I  could  see  her  face  and 


90 


KECAI.t.ED    TO  LIFE. 


her  form  distinctly.  And  I  noticed  now  she  was 
hke  her  sister,  Aunt  ICnuna,  only  youn^^er  and 
prettier,  and  ever  so  much  sli};hter.  And  her 
hand,  too,  was  soft  and  white  like  auntie's — very 
gentle  and  delicate. 

It  was  just  there  that  I  woke  up — with  the 
hand  before  my  eyes.  Oh,  how  vividly  1  noted 
it!  Aunt  Emma's  hand,  only  y()un<;er,  and  un- 
scarred  on  the  palm.  The  family  hand,  no 
doubt :  the  hand  of  the  I\Ioorcs.  1  remembered, 
now,  that  Aunt  Emma  had  spoken  more  than 
once  of  that  family  peculiarity.  It  ran  through 
the  house,  she  said.  lUit  my  hand  was  quite  dif- 
ferent;  not  t'>e  Moore  type  at  all;  I  supposed  I 
must  have  jn  it,  as  was  natural,  from  the  Cal- 
linghams. 

And  then,  in  my  utter  horror  and  loneliness,  a 
still  more  awful  and  ghastly  thought  presented 
itself  to  me.  This  was  my  mother's  hand  I  saw 
in  the  picture.  Was  it  my  mother,  indeed,  who 
wrought  the  murder?  Was  she  living  or  dead? 
Had  my  father  put  upon  her  some  grievous 
wrong?  Had  he  pretended  to  get  her  out  of  the 
way?  Had  he  buried  her  alive,  so  to  speak,  in 
some  prison  or  madhouse?  Had  she  returned  in 
disguise  from  the  asylum,  or  the  living  grave, 
to  avenge  herself  and  murder  him?  In  my  pres- 
ent frame  of  mind,  no  idea  was  too  wild  or  too 
strange  for  me  to  entertain.  If  this  strain  con- 
tinued much  longer,  I  should  go  mad  myself  with 
suspense  and  horror! 


CHAPTER  X. 


YET  ANOTHER    rHOTO(;UAI»II. 


NEXT  morning  my  head  ached.  After  all  I'd 
suffered,  I  could  hardly  bear  to  recur  to  the 
one  subject  that  now  always  occupied  my  thoughts. 
And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  I  couldn't  succeed 
in  banishing  it.  To  relieve  my  mind  a  little,  I 
took  out  the  photographs  I  had  brought  from  the 
box  at  The  Grange,  and  began  to  sort  them  over 
according  to  probable  date  and  subject. 

They  were  of  different  periods,  some  old,  some 
newer.  I  put  them  together  in  series,  as  well  as 
I  could,  by  the  nature  of  the  surroundings.  The 
most  recent  of  all  were  my  father's  early  attempts 
at  instantaneous  electric  photography — the  at- 
tempts which  led  up  at  last  to  his  automatic 
machine,  the  acmegraph,  that  produced  all  uncon- 
sciously the  picture  of  the  murder.  Some  of 
these  comparatively  recent  proofs  represented 
men  running  and  horses  trotting;  but  the  best  of 
all,  tied  together  with  a  bit  of  tape,  clearly  be- 
longed to  a  single  set,  and  must  have  been  taken 
at  the  same  time  at  an  athletic  meeting.  There 
was  one  of  a  flat  race,  viewed  from  a  little  in 
front,  with  the  limbs  of  the  runners  in  seemingly 

9» 


03 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


ridiculous  attitudes,  so  instantaneous  and  there- 
fore  so  grotesquely  rigid  were  they.  There  was 
another  of  a  high  jump,  seen  from  one  side  at  the 
very  moment  of  clearing  the  pole,  so  that  the 
figure  poised  solid  in  mid-air  as  motionless  as  a 
statue.  And  there  was  a  third,  equally  success- 
ful, of  a  man  throwing  the  hammer  in  which  the 
hammer,  in  the  same  way,  seemed  to  hang  sus- 
pended of  itself,  like  Mahomet's  coffin,  between 
earth  and  heaven. 

But  the  one  that  attracted  my  attention  the 
most  was  a  photograph  of  an  obstacle-race,  in  which 
the  runners  had  to  mount  and  climb  over  a  wagon 
placed  obtrusively  Ideways  across  the  course  on 
purpose  to  baffle  them.  This  picture  was  taken 
from  a  few  yards  in  the  rear;  and  the  athletes 
were  seen  in  it  in  the  most  varied  attitudes. 
Some  of  them  were  just  climbing  up  one  side  of 
the  wagon :  others  had  mounted  to  the  top  ledge 
of  the  body ;  and  one,  standing  on  the  further 
edge,  was  in  the  very  act  of  leaping  down  to  the 
ground  in  front  of  him.  He  was  bent  double,  to 
spring,  with  a  stoop  like  a  hunchback,  and  bal- 
anced himself  with  one  hand  held  tightly  behind 
him. 

As  my  eye  fell  on  that  figure,  a  cold  thrill  ran 
through  me.  For  a  moment  I  only  knew  some- 
thing important  had  happened.  Next  instant  I 
realized  what  the  thrill  portended.  I  could  only 
see  the  man's  back,  to  be  sure,  but  I  knew  him  in 


ilWJFUl".'JUi|-t..iJ 


rrMRBnvwMMMi 


VET  A  XO  /7/A  A'   /7/c>  TO^'AW  Pit. 


93 


a  second.  T  had  no  doubt  as  to  who  it  was. 
This  was  IIIM — tlic  murderer! 

Yes,  yes!  There  couhl  be  no  mistaking  that 
arched  round  back  that  had  haunted  me  so  lon^ 
in  my  waking  dreams.  1  knew  him  at  sij^ht.  It 
was  the  man  I  had  seen  on  tlie  nij^ht  of  the  mur- 
der getting  out  of  the  window! 

IVrhaps  I  was  overwrought.  Perhaps  my  fancy 
ran  away  with  mo.  liut  I  didn  i  doubt  for  a  sec- 
ond. I  rose  from  my  seat,  and  in  a  tremulous 
voice  called  Jane  into  the  room.  Without  one 
word  1  laid  both  pictures  down  before  her  to- 
gether. Jane  glanced  first  at  the  one,  then  turned 
quickly  to  the  other.  A  sharp  little  cry  broke 
from  her  lips  all  unbidden.  She  saw  it  as  fast  and 
as  instinctively  as  I  had  done. 

''That's  him!"  she  exclaimed,  aghast,  and  as 
pale  as  a  sheet.  "That's  him,  right  enough.  Miss 
Una.  That's  the  very  same  back!  That's  the 
very  same  hand!  That's  the  man!  That's  the 
murderer!" 

And,  indeed,  this  unanimity  was  sufificiently 
startling.  For  nothing  could  have  been  more  dif- 
ferent than  the  dress  in  the  two  cases.  In  the 
murder  scene,  the  man  seemed  to  wear  a  tweed 
suit  and  knickerbockers— 4ie  was  indistinct,  as  I 
said  before,  against  the  blurred  light  of  the  win- 
dow; while  in  the  athletic  scene  he  wore  just  a 
thin  jersey  and  running  drawers,  cut  short  at  the 
knee,  with  his  arms  and  legs  bare,  and  his  mus- 


II 


94 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


cles  contracted.  Yet  for  all  that,  we  both  knew 
him  for  the  same  man  at  once.  That  stooping 
back  was  unmistakable ;  that  position  of  the  hand 
was  characteristic  and  unique.  We  were  sure  he 
was  the  same  man.  I  trembled  with  agitation.  I 
had  a  clew  to  the  murderer! 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  that  wasn't  the  first 
thought  that  occurred  to  my  mind.  In  the  relief 
of  the  moment,  I  looked  up  into  Jane's  eyes,  and 
exclaimed,  with  a  sigh  of  profound  relief: 

'Then  you  see  how  mistaken  you  were  about 
the  hands  and  Aunt  Emma!" 

Jane  looked  closely  at  the  hand  in  the  photo- 
graph once  more. 

"Well,  it's  curious,"  she  said  slowly.  "That's 
a  man,  sure  enough;  but  he'd  ought  to  be  a 
Moore.  The  palm's  your  aunt's  a^  clear  as  ever 
you  could  paint  it !" 

I  glanced  over  her  shoulder.  She  was  per- 
fectly right.  It  was  a  man  beyond  all  doubt,  the 
figure  on  the  wagon.  Yet  the  hand  was  Aunt 
Emma's,  every  line  and  every  stroke  of  it;  ex- 
cept, of  course,  the  scars.  Those,  I  saw  at  a 
glance,  were  wholly  wa^^ting. 

And  now  I  had  really  a  clew  to  the  murderer. 

Yet  how  slight  a  clew!  Just  a  photograph  of 
men's  backs.  What  men?  When  and  where? 
It  was  an  athletic  meeting.  Of  what  club  or 
society?  That  was  the  next  question  now  I  had 
to  answer.     Instinctively  I  made  up  my  mind  to 


YET  ANOTHER  PHOTOGRAPH. 


95 


answer  it  myself,  without  giving  any  notice  to  the 
poHce  of  my  discovery. 

Perhaps  I  should  ncvci  have  been  able  to 
answer  it  at  all  but  for  one  of  tlie  photographs 
which,  as  I  thought,  though  lying  loose  by  itself, 
formed  part  of  the  same  series.  It  represented 
the  end  of  a  hundred-yard  race,  with  the  winners 
coming  in  at  the  tape  by  a  pavilion  with  a  flag- 
staff. On  the  staff  a  big  flag  was  flying  loosely  in 
the  wind.  The  folds  hid  half  of  the  words  on  its 
center  from  sight.  But  this  much  at  least  I  could 
read : 

ER  .  .  .  OM  .  .  OY  .  .  .  LETI  .  .  .     UB. 

I  gazed  at  them  long  and  earnestly.  After  a 
minute  or  two  of  thought,  I  made  out  the  last 
two  words.  The  inscription  must  surely  be 
Something-or-other  Athletic  Club. 

But  what  was  "Er  ...  om  .  .  oy  .  .  .  "? 
That  question  staggered  me.  Gazing  harder  at 
it  than  ever,  I  could  come  to  no  conclusion.  It 
was  the  name  of  a  place,  no  doubt ;  but  what 
place,  I  knew  not. 

"Er"?  No,  **Ber";  just  a  suspicion  of  a  ^ 
came  round  the  corner  of  a  fold.  If  B  was  the 
first  letter,  I  might  possibly  identify  it. 

I  took  the  photograph  down  to  Aunt  Emma 
without  telling  her  what  I  meant.  She  couldn't 
bear  to  think  I  was  ever  engaged  in  thinking  of 
my  First  State  at  all. 

"Can  you  read  the    inscription   on  that   flag, 


m 

J,!i 


96 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


1 


Auntie?"  I  asked.  "It's  an  old  photograph  I 
picked  up  in  the  attic  at  The  Grange,  and  I'd  like 
to  know,  if  I  could,  at  what  place  it  was  taken." 

Aunt  Emma  gazed  at  it  long  and  earnestly. 
Her  color  never  changed.  Then  she  shook  her 
head  quietly. 

"I  don't  know  the  place,"  she  said,  "and  I 
don't  know  the  name.  I  can't  quite  make  it  out. 
That's  Ey  and  R,  and  O.  You  see  the  letters  in 
between  might  be  almost  anything." 

I  wasn't  going  to  be  put  off,  however,  with  the 
port  thus  in  sight.  One  fact  was  almost  certain. 
Wherever  that  pavilion  might  be,  the  murderer 
was  there  on  the  day  unknown  when  those  pho- 
tographs were  taken.  And  whatever  that  day 
might  be,  my  father  and  the  murderer  were  there 
together.  That  brought  the  two  into  connection, 
and  brought  me  one  step  nearer  a  solution  than 
ever  the  police  had  been;  for  hitherto  no  one 
had  even  pretended  to  have  the  slightest  clew  to 
the  personality  of  the  man  who  jumped  out  of 
the  window. 

I  went  into  the  library  and  took  down  the  big 
atlas.  Opening  the  map  of  England  and  Wales, 
I  began  a  hopeless  search,  county  by  county,  from 
Northumberland  downward,  for  any  town  or  vil- 
lage that  would  fit  these  mysterious  letters.  It 
was  a  wild  and  foolish  idea.  In  the  first  place 
not  a  quarter  of  the  villages  were  marked  in  the 


YET  AKTOTfTER  PHOTOGRAPH. 


97 


maps;  and  in  the  second  place,  my  brain  soon 
got  muddled  and  dazed  with  trying  to  fit  in  the 
names  with  the  letters  on  the  flag.  Two  hours 
had  passed  away,  and  I'd  only  got  as  far  down  as 
Lancashire  and  Durham.  And  most  probably, 
even  so,  I  would  nev^er  come  upon  it. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  bright  idea  broke  on  my 
brain  at  once.  The  Index!  The  Index!  Pre- 
sumably, as  no  fold  seemed  to  obscure  the  first 
words,  the  name  began  with  what  looked  like  a 
B,     That  was  always  something. 

A  man  would  have  thought  of  that  at  once,  of 
course:  but  then,  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be 
only  a  woman. 

I  turned  to  the  Index  in  haste,  and  looked 
down  it  with  hurried  eyes.  Almost  sooner  than 
I  could  have  hoped,  the  riddle  unread  itself. 
"Ber-Berb-Berc-Berd— "  I  read  out.  "Berkshire: 
Berham :  Berhampore ;  that  won't  do ;  Berlin : 
Berling:  Bernina;  Berry — what's  that?  Oh, 
great  Heavens!" — my  brain  reeled — "Berry  Pom- 
eroy !" 

It  was  as  clear  as  day.  How  could  I  have^missed 
it  before?  There  it  seemed  to  stand  out  almost 
legible  on  the  flag-staff.  I  read  it  now  with  ease : 
"Berry  Pomeroy  Athletic  Club." 

I  looked  up  the  map  once  more,  following  the 
lines  with  my  fingers,  till  I  found  the  very  place 
where  the  name  was  printed.    A  village  in  Dev- 


98 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


I 


M 


onshire,  not  far  from  Torquay.  Yes !  That's  it ! 
Berry  Pomcroy.  The  murderer  was  there  on  the 
day  of  that  athletic  meeting! 

My  heart  came  up  into  my  mouth  with 
mingled  horror  and  triumph.  I  felt  like  a  blood- 
hound who  gets  on  the  trail  of  his  man.  I  would 
track  him  down  now,  no  doubt — my  father's 
murderer! 

I  had  no  resentment  against  him,  no  desire  for 
vengeance.  But  I  had  a  burning  wish  to  free 
myself  from  this  environing  mystery. 

I  wouldn't  tell  the  police  or  the  Inspector,  how- 
ever, what  clew  I  had  obtained.  I'd  find  it  all 
out  for  myself  without  any  one's  help.  I  remem- 
bered what  Dr.  Marten  had  said,  and  determined 
to  be  wise.  I'd  work  on  my  own  lines  till  all  was 
found  out ;  and  then,  be  it  who  it  might,  I  sternly 
resolved  I'd  let  justice  be  done  on  him. 

So  I  said  nothing  even  to  Jane  about  the  dis- 
covery I'd  just  made.  I  said  nothing  to  anybody 
till  we  sat  down  at  dinner.  Then,  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  I  got  on  the  subject  of  Devon- 
shire. 

"Auntie,"  I  ventured  to  ask  at  last,  in  a  very 
casual  way,  "did  I  ever,  so  far  as  you  know,  go 
anywhere  near  a  place  called  Berry  Pomeroy?" 

Aunt  Emma  gave  a  start. 

"Oh,  darling,  why  do  you  ask?"  she  cried. 
**You  don't  mean  to  say  you  remember  that,  do 
you?    What  do  you  want  to  know  for,  Una?    You 


YET  ANOTHER  PHOTOGRAPH. 


99 


! 


can't    possibly    recollect     your    Torquay    visit, 
surely!" 

I  trembled  all  over.  Then  I  was  on  the  right 
track! 

"Was  I  ever  at  Torquay?"  I  asked  once  more, 
as  firmly  as  I  could.  "And  when  I  was  there,  did 
I  go  over  one  day  to  Berry  Pomeroy?" 

Aunt  Emma  grew  all  at  once  as  white  as  death. 

"This  is  wonderful!"  she  cried  in  an  agitated 
voice.  "This  is  wonderful — wonderful!  If  you 
can  remember  that,  my  child,  you  can  remember 
anything." 

"  I  doiit  remember  it,  Auntie,"  I  answered,  not 
liking  to  deceive  her.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
simply  guessed  at  it.  But  when  and  why  was  I 
at  Torquay?  Please  tell  me.  And  did  I  go  to 
Berry  Pomeroy?"  for  I  stuck  to  my  point,  and 
meant  to  get  it  out  of  her. 

Aunt  Emma  gazed  at  me  fixedly. 

"You  went  to  Torquay,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  very 
slow  voice,  "in  the  spring  of  the  same  year  your 
poor  father  was  killed ;  that's  more  than  four 
years  ago.  The  Willie  Moores  live  at  Torquay, 
and  several  more  of  your  cousins.  You  went  to 
stop  with  Willie's  wife,  and  you  stayed  five  weeks. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  ever  went  over  to  Berry 
Pomeroy.  You  may  have  and  you  mayn't;  it's 
within  an  easy  driving  distance.  Minnie  Moore 
has  often  written  to  ask  me  whether  you  could 
go  there  again ;  Minnie  was  always  fond  of  you, 


TOO 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


and  thinks  you*d  remember  her:  but  IVe  been 
afraid  to  allow  you,  for  fear  it  should  recall  sad 
scenes.  She's  about  your  own  age,  Minnie  is; 
and  she's  a  daughter  of  Willie  Moore,  who's  my 
own  first  cousin,  and  of  course  your  dear  mother's." 

I  never  hesitated  a  moment.  I  was  strung  up 
too  tightly  by  that  time. 

"Auntie,  dear,"  I  said  quietly,  "I  go  to-morrow 
to  Torquay.  I  must  know  all  now.  I  must  hunt 
up  these  people." 

Auntie  knew  from  my  tone  it  was  no  use  trying 
to  stand  in  my  way  any  longer. 

"Very  well,  dear,"  she  said  resignedly.  "I 
don't  believe  it's  good  for  you :  but  you  must  do 
as  you  like.  You  have  your  father's  will,  Una. 
You  were  always  headstrong." 


,   »» 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE  VISION   RECURS. 

I  HATED  asking  auntie  questions,  they  seemed 
to  worry  and  distress  her  so;  but  that  even- 
ing, in  view  of  my  projected  visit  to  Torquay,  I 
was  obliged  to  cross-examine  her  rather  closely 
about  many  things.  I  wanted  to  know  about  my 
Torquay  relations,  and  as  far  as  possible  about 
my  mother's  family.  In  the  end  I  learned  that  the 
Willie  Moores  were  cousins  of  ours  on  my  mother's 
side,  who  had  never  quarreled  with  my  father  like 
Aunt  Emma,  and  through  whom  alone,  accord- 
ingly, in  the  days  of  my  First  State,  Aunt  Emma 
was  able  to  learn  anything  about  me.  They  had 
a  house  at  Torquay,  and  connections  all  around ; 
for  the  Moores  were  Devonshire  people.  Aunt 
Emma  was  very  anxious,  if  I  went  down  there  at 
all,  I  should  stop  with  Mrs.  Moore,  for  Minnie 
would  be  so  grieved,  she  said,  if  I  went  to  a 
hotel  or  took  private  lodgings.  But  I  wouldn't 
hear  of  that  myself.  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
Moores — in  my  present  condition — and  didn't  like 
to  trust  myself  in  the  hands  of  those  who  to  me 
were  perfect  strangers.     So  I  decided  on  going  to 


T02 


RRCAr.T.F.n    TO  riFE, 


I 


I 


I 


the  Imperial  Hotel,  and  calling  on  the  Moores 
quietly  to  pursue  my  investigation. 

Another  question  I  asked  in  the  course  of  the 
evening.  I  had  wondered  about  it  often,  and  now, 
in  these  last  straits,  curiosity  overcame  me. 

"Aunt  Emma,"  1  said  unexpectedly,  after  a 
pause,  without  one  word  of  introduction,  ** how- 
ever did  you  get  those  scars  on  your  hand. 
You've  never  told  me." 

In  a  moment,  Aunt  Emma  blushed  suddenly 
crimson  like  a  girl  of  eighteen. 

"Una,"  she  answered  very  gravely,  in  a  low 
strange  tone,  "oh,  don't  ask  me  about  that,  dear. 
Don't  ask  me  about  that.  You  could  never  un- 
derstand it I  got  them  ....  in  climbing 

over  a  high  stone  wall  ....  a  high  stone  wall, 
with  bits  of  glass  stuck  on  top  of  it." 

In  spite  of  her  prohibition,  I  couldn't  help  ask- 
ing one  virtual  question  more.  I  gave  a  start  of 
horror : 

"Not  the  wall  at  The  Grange?"  I  cried.  "Oh, 
Aunt  Emma,  how  wonderful !" 

She  gazed  at  me  astonished. 

"Yes,  the  wall  at  The  Grange,"  she  said  simply. 

"But  I  don't  know  how  you  guessed  it Oh, 

Una,  don't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  these 
things,  I  implore  you.  You  can't  think  how  they 
grieve  me.     They  distress  me  unspeakably." 

Much  as  I  longed  to  know,  I  couldn't  ask  her 
again  after  that.     She  was  trembling  like  an  aspen 


THE  vrsro.v  recui^s. 


103 


leaf.  For  some  minutes  wc  sat  and  looked  at  the 
fireplace  in  silence. 

Then  curiosity  overcame  mc  again. 

"Only  one  question  more,  Auntie,"  I  said. 
"When  I  came  to  you  first,  you  were  at  home 
here  at  Barton.  You  didn't  come  to  Woodbury 
to  fetch  mc  after  the  murder.  You  didn't  attend 
the  inquest.  I've  often  wondered  at  that.  Why 
didn't  you  bring  me  yourself^  Why  didn't  you 
hurry  to  nurse  me  as  soon  as  you  heard  they'd 
shot  my  father?" 

Aunt  Emma  gazed  at  me  again  with  a  face  like 
a  sheet. 

"Darling,"  she  said,  quivering,  "I  was  ill.  I 
was  in    bed.     I   was^obliged   to  stay  away.     I'd 

hurt  myself  badly  a  little  before Oh,  Una, 

leave  off!  If  you  go  on  like  this,  you'll  drive  me 
mad.     Say  no  more,  I  implore  of  you." 

I  couldn't  think  what  this  meant ;  but  as  auntie 
wished  it,  I  held  my  peace,  all  inwardly  trembling 
with  suppressed  excitement. 

That  night,  when  I  went  up  to  bed,  I  lay  awake 
long,  thinking  to  myself  of  the  Australian  scene. 
In  the  silence  of  the  night  it  came  back  to  me 
vividly.  Rain  pattered  on  the  roof,  and  helped 
me  to  remember  it.  I  could  see  the  blue-gum 
trees  waving  their  long  ribbon-like  leaves  in  the 
wind.  I  could  sec  the  cottage,  the  veranda,  my 
mother,  our  dog;  nay,  even,  I  remembered  now, 
with  a  burst  of  recollection,*his  name  was  Carlo. 


to4 


RECArJ.ET)    TO  LIFE, 


The  effort  was  more  truly  o  recollection  than  be- 
fore; it  was  part  of  myself;  I  felt  aware  it  was 
really  I  myself,  not  another,  who  had  seen  all  this, 
and  lived  and  moved  in  it. 

Slowly  I  fell  asleep,  and  passed  from  thinking 
to  dreaming.  My  dream  was  but  a  prolongation 
of  the  thoughts  I  had  been  turning  over  in  my 
waking  mind.  I  was  still  in  Australia;  still  on 
the  veranda  of  our  wooden  house ;  and  my 
mamma  was  there,  and  papa  beside  her.  I  knew 
it  was  papa,  for  I  held  his  hand  and  played  with 
him.  But  he  was  so  much  altered,  so  grave  and 
severe;  though  he  smiled  at  me  good-humoredly. 
Mamma  was  sitting  behind,  with  baby  on  her  lap. 
It  seemed  to  me  quite  natural  she  should  be  there 
with  baby.  The  scene  was  so  distinct  -very 
vivid  and  clear.  It  persisted  for  many  minute*:, 
perhaps  even  hours.  It  burnt  itself  into  my  brain. 
At  last,  it  woke  me  up  by  its  very  intensity. 

As  I  woke,  a  great  many  thoughts  crowded  in 
upon  me  all  at  once.  This  time  I  knew  instantly 
it  was  no  mere  dream,  but  a  true  recollection. 
Yet  what  a  strange  recollection  !  how  unexpected  ! 
how  incomprehensible!  How  much  in  it  to  settle! 
how  much  to  investigate  and  hunt  up  and  inquire 
about ! 

In  the  first  place,  though  I  was  still  in  my 
dream  a  little  girl,  much  time  must  have  elapsed 
since  the  earlier  vision ;  for  my  papa  looked  far 
older,  and  graver,  and  sterner.     He  had  more  hair 


Till:    VISION    KECURS, 


105 


about  his  face,  too,  a  loii^  hiowii  heard  and  heavy 
mustaclie;  and   when    I   u:a/ed   liard  at  him   inen- 


coiild  i\*eo<;ni/i.'  the  hkeiuss  with  the*  wlnle- 


tally,  I 

bearded  man  who  lay  dead  on  the  lloor;  whiK  ,  in 
in\'  former  reeoMection,  I  couhl  scarcely  make  out 
any  resemblance  of  tlie  features.  This  showed 
that  I  he'  second  scene  came  lonj^  after  the  first ;  my 
father  must  by  that  time  have  bej^un  to  resemble 
his  later  self.  A  weird  feeling  stole  over  me. 
Was  I  jj;<iin^  to  relive  my  previous  life,  piece- 
meal? Was  the  past  ^oing  to  unroll  itself  in  slow 
but  regular  panorama  to  my  sleeping  vision.  Was 
my  First  State  to  become  known  like  this,  in  suc- 
cessive scenes,  to  my  Second? 

But  that  wasn't  all.  There  were  strange  ques- 
tions to  decide,  too,  about  this  new  dream  of  dead 
days.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  that  mys- 
terious baby?  She  seemed  to  be  so  vivid,  so 
natural,  so  real ;  her  prescncq  there  was  so  much 
a  pure  matter  of  course  to  me,  that  I  couldn't  for 
a  moment  separate  her  from  the  rest  of  the  Pic- 
ture. I  remembered  the  baby,  now;  as  I  remem- 
bered  my  mother,  and  my  father,  and  Australia. 
There  was  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  that.  The 
baby  was  an  integral  part  of  my  real  recollection. 
Floating  across  the  dim  ocean  of  years,  I  was  cer- 
tain that  night  I  had  once  lived  in  such  a  scene, 
with  my  mamma,  and  baby. 

Yet  oh,  what  baby?  I  never  had  a  brother  or 
sister  of  my  own,  except  the  half-sister  that  died 


to6 


RECM.I.F.D    TO  riFE, 


— tlic  clergyman's  chiKI,  Mary  Wharton.  And 
Mary,  from  what  I  hail  learned  from  Aunt  I-'mma 
and  otlurs,  must  have  died  when  I  was  only  just 
five  months  (»ld,  immediately  before  we  left  Aus- 
tralia.  How,  then,  could  I  remember  her,  even 
in  this  exalted  mental  state  of  trance  or  dream? 
Anil,  above  all,  how  coukl  I  remember  a  far  ear- 
lier scene,  when  my  pa[)a  was  younger,  when  his 
face  was  smooth,  and  wluii  there  was  no  other 
baby? 

This  mystery  only  heij^ditened  the  other  mys- 
teries which  surrounded  my  life.  1  was  surfeited 
with  them  now.  In  very  despair  and  listless- 
ncss,  1  turned  round  on  my  side,  and  dozed 
dreamily  off  a^ain,  unable  to  ^napplc  with  it. 

Hut  still    that    scene    haunted    me.     And  still, 
even  in  sleep,  I  asked  myself  over  and  over  again, 
"How  on  earth  can  this  be?    What's  the  meaning 
.    of  the  baby?" 

Perhaps  it  was  a  little  sister  that  died  young, 
whom  I  never  had  heard  of.  And  perhaps  not. 
In  a  life  such  as  mine,  new  surprises  are 


possible. 


irpi 


iwayi 


CHAPTER   XII. 


THE   MOOKES  UE  TORQUAY. 

STRANGE  to  say,  in  s[)itc  of  everything,  wy 
sleep  refreshed  nie.  1  woke  up  in  the  morn- 
ing strong  and  vig<jrous — thank  goodness,  I  have 
physically  a  magnificent  constitution— and  packed 
my  box,  with  Jane's  help,  for  my  Torquay  expe- 
dition. - 

I  went  up  to  London  and  down  to  Torquay 
alone,  though  Jane  offered  to  accompany  me.  I 
was  learning  to  be  self-reliant.  It  suited  my 
plans  better.  Nobody  could  bear  this  burden  for 
me  but  myself;  and  the  sooner  I  learnt  to  bear  it 
my  own  way,  the  happier  for  me. 

At  Torquay  station,  to  my  great  surprise,  a 
fresh-looking  girl  of  my  own  age  rushed  up  to 
me  suddenly,  and  kissed  me  without  one  word  of 
warning.  She  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  pink-cheeked 
and  hazel-eyed ;  and  as  she  kissed  me,  she  seized 
both  my  hands  in  hers,  and  cried  out  to  me 
■frankly : 

"Why,   there    you    are,    Una    dear!      Cousin 

Emma  telegraphed  us  what  train  you'd  arrive  by; 

>o  I've  driven  down  to  meet  you.    And  now, 

X07 


io8 


RECALLED    TO  LLEE. 


you're  coming;  up  with  us  this  very  minute  in  the 
pony  carriage." 

"You're  INIinnie  Moore,  I  suppose?"  I  said, 
gazing  at  her  admiringly.  Her  sweet,  frank  smile 
and  apple-blossom  cheek  somehow  inspired  me 
with  confidence. 

She  looked  back  at  me  quite  distressed.  Tears 
rose  at  once  into  her  eyes  with  true  Celtic  sud- 
denness. 

"Oil,  Una,"  she  cried,  deeply  hurt  and  drawing 
back  into  her  shell,  "don't  tell  me  you  don't 
know  me!     Why,  I'm  Minnie!     Minnie!" 

My  heart  went  out  to  her  at  once.  I  took  her 
hand  in  mine  again. 

"Minnie  dear,"  I  said  softly,  quite  remorseful 
for  my  mistake,  "you  must  remember  what  has 
happened  to  me,  and  not  be  angry.  I've  forgot- 
ten everything,  even  my^  own  past  Hfe.  I've  for- 
gotten that  I  ever  before  set  my  eyes  Mpon  you. 
But,  my  dear,  there's  one  thing  I've  not  in  a  w^ay 
forgotten ;  and  that  is,  that  I  loved  you  and  love 
you  dearly.  And  I'll  give  you  a  proof  of  it. 
When  I  started,  I  knew  none  of  you ;  and  I  told 
Aunt  Emma  I  wouldn't  go  among  strangers. 
The  moment  I  see  you,  I  know  you're  no  stran- 
ger, but  a  very  dear  cousin.  When  I've  forgotten 
myself^  \\Q\\  can  I  remember  j^/^?  But  I'll  go  up 
with  you  at  once.  And  I'll  countermand  the 
room  I  ordered  by  telegram  at  the  Imperial." 


THE  MOORE S  OF   TORQUA  Y. 


109 


k 


The  tears  stood  fuller  in  Minnie's  eyes  than 
before.  She  clasped  my  hand  hard.  Her  pretty 
lips  trembled. 

"Una  darling,"  she  said,  "we  always  were 
friends,  and  we  always  shall  be.  If  you  iove  me, 
that's  all.     You're  a  darling.     I  love  you." 

I  looked  at  her  sweet  face,  and  knew  it  was 
true.  And  oh,  I  was  so  giad  to  have  a  new  friend 
— an  old  friend,  already!  For  somehow,  as  al- 
ways, while  the  intellectual  recollection  had  faded, 
the  emotion  survived.  I  felt  as  if  I'd  known 
Minnie  Moore  for  years,  though  I  never  re- 
membered to  have  seen  her  in  my  life  till  that 
minute. 

Well,  T  remained  at  the  Moores*  for  a  week, 
and  felt  quite  at  home  there.  They  were  all  very 
nice — Cousin  Willie,  and  Aunt  Emily  (she  made 
me  call  her  aunt;  she  said  I'd  always  done  so), 
and  Minnie,  and  all  of  them.  They  were  really 
dear  people;  and  blood,  after  all,  is  thicker  than 
water.  But  I  made  no  haste  to  push  inquiries 
just  at  first.  I  preferred  to  feel  my  way.  I 
wanted  to  find  out  \Yhat  they  knew,  if  anything, 
about  Berry  Pomeroy. 

The  first  time  I  ventured  to  mention  the  sub- 
ject to  Minnie,  she  gave  a  very  queer  smile — a 
smile  of  maidenly  badinage. 

"Well,  you  remember  thaty  any  way,"  she  said, 
in  a  teasing  little  way,  looking  down  at  me  and 


no 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


H 


■'V 


laughing.  "I  thought  you'd  remember  that.  I 
must  say  you  enjoyed  yourself  wonderfully  at 
Berry  Pomeroy !" 

"Remember  what?"  I  cried,  all  eagerness;  for 
I  saw  she  attached  some  special  importance  to 
the  recollection.  And  yet  it  was  terrible  she 
should  jest  about  the  clew  to  my  father's  mur- 
derer ! 

Minnie  looked  arch.  When  she  looked  arch, 
she  was  charming. 

"Why,  I  never  saw  you  prettier  or  more  en- 
gaging in  your  life  than  you  were  that  day,"  she 
said  evasively,  as  if  trying  to  pique  me.  "And 
you  flirted  so  much,  too!  And  everybody  ad- 
mired you  so.  Everybody  on  the  grounds — 
especially  one  person !" 

I  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise.  I  was  in  my 
own  room,  seated  by  the  dressing-table,  late  at 
night,  when  we'd  gone  up  to  bed ;  and  Minnie 
was  beside  me,  standing  up,  with  her  bedroom 
candle  in  that  pretty  white  little  hand  of  hers. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  exclaimeo  eagerly. 
"Was  it  a  dance — or  a  picnic?" 

"Oh,  you  know  very  well,"  Minnie  went  on 
teasingly,  "though  you  pretend  you  forget.  He 
was  there,  don't  you  know.  You  must  remember 
him^  if  you've  forgotten  all  the  rest  of  your  pre- 
vious life.  You  say  you  remember  the  appropri- 
ate emotions.  Well,  he  was  an  emotion;  at 
least,  you  thought  so.     It  was  an  Athletic  Club 


:r 


I 


THE   MOORES  OF   TORQUAY, 


III 


• 


meeting;  and  Dr.  Ivor  was  there.  He  went 
across  on  his  bicycle." 

I  gave  a  start  of  surprise.  Minnie  looked  down 
at  me  half  maliciously. 

*'Thcrc,  you  sec,"  she  said  archly  again,  "at  Dr. 
Ivor  you  change  color.  I  told  you  you'd  remem- 
ber him !" 

I  grew  pale  with  astonishment. 

"Minnie  dear,"  I  said,  holding  her  hands  very 
tight  in  my  own,  "it  wasn't  that,  I  assure  you. 
I've  forgotten  him  utterly.  If  ever  I  knew  a  Dr. 
Ivor,  if  ever  I  flirted  with  him,  as  you  seem  to 
imply,  he's  gone  clean  out  of  my  head.  His 
name  stirs  no  chord — recalls  absolutely  nothing. 
But  I  wanf  to  know  about  that  Athletic  Meeting. 
Was  my  poor  father  there  that  day?  And  did  he 
take  a  set  of  photographs?" 

Minnie  clapped  her  hands  triumphantly. 

"I  knezv  you  remembered!"  she  cried  "Of 
course.  Cousin  Vivian  was  there.  We  drove  over 
in  a  break.  You  imist  remember  that.  And  he 
took  a  whole  lot  of  instantaneous  photographs." 

My  hand  trembled  violently  in  my  cousin's.  I 
felt  I  was  now  on  the  very  eve  of  a  great  dis- 
covery. 

"Minnie,"  I  said  tentatively,  "do  you  think 
your  papa  would  drive  us  over  some  day  and — 
and  show  us  the  place  again?" 

"Of  course  he  would,  dear,"  Minnie  answered, 
with  a  gentle  pressure  of  my  hand.     "He'd  be 


jr 


I 


i  I 


112 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


only  too  dclii;litcd.  Wlintcver  you  choose.  You 
know  you  were  always  such  a  favoiiti'  of  papa's." 

I  knew  nothini;-  of  the  sort;  but  I  ,\as  L;lad  to 
learn  it.  I  drew  iMiiniie  out  a  little  more  about 
the  Athletics  and  my  visit  to  Herry  Pc-meroy. 
She  wouldn't  tell  me  much;  she  was  too  illusive 
and  indefinites;  she  never  could  ,^et  the  notion  out 
of  her  head,  somehow,  that  1  remembered  all 
about  it,  and  was  only  pretending;  to  forgetfulncss. 
But  I  gathered  from  what  she  said,  that  Dr. 
Ivor  and  I  must  have  flirted  a  great  deal;  or,  at 
least,  that  he  must  have  paid  me  a  good  lot  of 
attention.  My  father  didn't  like  it,  Minnie  said  ; 
he  thought  Dr.  Ivor  wasn't  well  enough  off  to 
marry  me.  He  was  a  distant  cousin  of  ours,  of 
course — everything  was  idways  "of  course"  with 
that  dear  bright  Minnie — what,  didn't  I  know 
that?  Oh,  yes,  his  mother  was  one  of  the  Moores 
of  Barnstaple,  Cousin  Edward's  people.  His 
name  w^as  Courtenay  Moore  Ivor,  you  know — 
though  I  knew  nothing  of  the  sort.  And  he  was 
awfully  clever.     And,  oh,  so  handsome! 

"Is  he  at  Berry  Pomeroy  still?"  I  asked,  trem- 
bling, thinking  this  would  be  a  good  person  to  get 
information  from  about  the  people  at  the  Ath- 
letic Sports. 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  Minnie  answered,  looking  hard 
at  me  curiously.  "He  was  never  at  Berry  Pom- 
eroy. He  had  a  practice  at  Babbicombe.  He's 
in   Canada  now%  you   know.     He  went  over  six 


THE  MOORES  OF   TORQUAY. 


113 


i 


months  after  Cousin  Vivian's  death.  I  think, 
dear," — she  hesitated, — "he  n^vo-X  quite  got  over 
your  entirely  forgetting  him,  even  if  you  forgot 
your  whole  past  history." 

This  was  a  curious  romance  to  me,  that  Minnie 
thus  sprang  on  me — a  romance  of  my  own  past 
life  of  which  I  myself  knew  nothing. 

We  sat  late  talking,  and  I  could  see  Minnie 
was  very  full  indeed  of  Dr.  Ivor.  Over  and  over 
again  she  recurred  to  his  name,  and  always  as 
though  she  thought  it  might  rouse  some  latent 
chord  in  my  memory.  But  nothing  came  of  it. 
If  ever  I  had  cared  for  Dr.  Ivor  at  all,  that  feeling 
had  passed  away  utterly  with  the  rest  of  my 
experiences. 

When  Minnie  rose  to  go,  I  took  her  hand  once 
more  in  mine.  As  I  did  so,  I  started.  Some- 
thing about  it  seemed  strangely  familiar.  I 
looked  at  it  close  with  a  keen  glance.  Why,  this 
was  curious !  It  was  Aunt  Emma's  hand ;  it  was 
my  mother's  hand ;  it  was  the  hand  in  my  mental 
Picture;  it  was  the  hand  of  the  murderer! 

"It's  just  like  auntie's,"  I  said  with  an  effort, 
seeing  Minnie  noticed  my  start. 

She  looked  at  it  and  laughed. 

"The  Moore  hand,"  she  said  gayly.  "We  all 
have  it,  except  you.     It's  awfully  persistent." 

I  turned  it  over  in  front  and  examined  the 
palm.  At  sight  of  it  my  brain  reeled.  This  was 
surely   magic!     Minnie   Moore's   hand,  too,  was 


3 


114 


RECALLED    TO   LIFE. 


scarred  over  with  cuts,  exactly  like  Aunt 
Emma's! 

"Why,  how  on  earth  did  you  do  that?"  I  cried, 
thunderstruck  at  the  discovery. 

But  Minnie  only  laughed  again,  a  bright  girlish 
laugh. 

"Climbing  over  that  beastly  wall  at  The 
Grange,"  she  said  with  a  merry  look.  "Oh,  what 
fun  we  did  have  I  We  climbed  it  together.  We 
were  dreadful  tomboys  in  those  days,  dear,  you 
and  I ;  but  you  were  luckier  than  I  was,  and 
didn't  cut  yourself  with  the  bottle-glass." 

This  was  too  surprising  to  be  passed  over  un- 
noticed. When  Minnie  was  gone,  I  lay  awake 
and  pondered  about  it.  Had  all  the  Moores  got 
scars  on  their  hands,  I  wondered?  And  how 
many  people,  I  asked  myself,  had  cut  themselves 
time  and  again  in  climbing  over  that  barricaded 
garden-wall  of  my  father's? 

The  Moore  hand  might  be  hereditary,  but  not 
surely  the  scars.  Was  the  murderer,  then,  a 
Moore,  and  was  that  the  meaning  of  Dr.  Marten's 
warning? 


I 


. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

DR.   IVOR  OF  BABBICOMBE. 

TWO  days  later,  Cousin  Willie  drove  us  over  to 
Berry  Pomeroy.  The  lion  of  the  place  is  the 
castle,  of  course;  but  Minnie  had  told  him  before- 
hand I  wanted,  for  reasons  of  my  own,  to  visit 
the  cricket  field  where  the  sports  were  held  "the 
year  Dr.  Ivor  won  the  mile  race,  you  remember." 
So  we  went  there  straight.  As  soon  as  we 
entered,  I  recognized  the  field  at  once,  and  the 
pavilion,  and  ^he  woods,  as  being  precisely  the 
same  as  t^iose  presented  in  the  photograph.  But 
I  got  no  further  than  that.  The  captain  of  the 
cricket  club  was  on  the  ground  that  day,  and  I 
managed  to  get  into  conversation  with  him,  and 
strolled  off  in  the  grounds.  There  I  showed  him 
the  photograph  and  asked  if  he  could  identify  the 
man  climbing  over  the  wagon:  but  he  said  he 
couldn't  recognize  him.  Somebody  or  other  from 
Torquay,  perhaps;  not  a  regular  resident.  The 
figures  were  so  small,  and  so  difificult  to  make  sure 
about.  If  I'd  leave  him  the  photograph,  per- 
haps— but  at  that  I  drew  back,  for  I  didn't  want 

1x5 


ii6 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


anybody,  least  of  all  at  Torquay,  to  know  what 
quest  I  was  engaged  upon. 

We  drove  back,  a  merry  party  enough,  in  spite 
of  my  failure.  Minnie  was  always  so  jolly,  and 
her  mirth  was  contagious.  She  talked  all  the  way 
still  of  Dr.  Ivor,  half-teasing  me.  It  was  all  very 
well  my  pretending  not  to  remember,  she  said ; 
but  why  did  I  want  to  see  the  cricket  field  if  it 
wasn't  for  that.  Poor  Courtenay !  if  only  he  knew, 
how  delighted  he'd  be  to  know  he  wasn't  for- 
gotten. For  he  really  took  it  to  heart,  my  ill- 
ness— she  always  called  it  my  illness,  and  so  I  sup- 
pose it  was.  From  the  day  I  lost  my  memory, 
nothing  seemed  to  go  right  with  him ;  and  he  was 
never  content  till  he  went  and  buried  himself 
somewhere  in  the  wilds  of  Canada. 

That  evening,  again,  I  sat  with  Minnie  in  my 
room.  I  was  depressed  and  distressed.  I  didn't 
want  to  cry  before  Minnie,  but  I  could  have  cried 
with  good  heart  for  sheer  vexation.  Of  course  I 
couldn't  bear  to  go  showing  the  photograph  to  all 
the  world,  and  letting  everybody  see  I'd  made 
myself  a  sort  of  amateur  detective.  They  would 
mistake  my  motives  so.  And  yet  I  didn't  know 
how  I  was  ever  to  find  out  my  man  any  other 
way.  It  was  that  or  nothing.  I  made  up  my 
mind  I  would  ask  Cousin  Willie. 

I  took  out  the  photograph,  as  if  unintentionally, 
when  I  went  to  my  box,  and  laid  it  down  with 
my  curling-tongs  on  the  table  close   by  Minnie. 


DR.  IVOR  OF  n.innrcoMBE. 


"7 


i 


Minnie  took  it  up  abstractedly  and  looked  at  it 
with  an  indefinite  gaze. 

"Why,  this  is  the  cricket  field!"  she  cried,  as 
soon  as  she  collected  her  senses.  "One  of  your 
father's  experiments.  The  earliest  acmegraphs. 
How  splendidly  they  come  out!  See,  that's  Sir 
Everard  at  the  bottom ;  and  there's  little  Jack 
Hillier  above;  and  this  on  one  side's  Captain 
Brooks;  and  there,  in  front  of  all — well,  you  know 
hiift,  anyhow,  Una.  Now,  don't  pretend  you  for- 
get!     That's  Courtenay  Ivor!" 

Her  finger  was  on  the  man  who  stood  poised 
ready  to  jump.  With  an  awful  recoil  I  drew 
back  and  suppressed  a  scream.  It  was  on  the  tip 
of  my  tongue  to  cry  out,  "Why,  that's  my  father's 
murderer!" 

But,  happily,  with  a  great  effort  of  will,  I  re- 
strained myself.  I  saw  it  all  at  a  glance.  That, 
then,  was  the  meaning  of  Dr.  Marten's  warning! 
No  wonder,  I  thought,  the  shock  had  disorganized 
my  whole  brain.  If  Minnie  was  right,  I  was  in 
love  once  with  that  man.  And  I  must  have  seen 
my  lover  murder  my  father! 

For  I  didn't  doubt,  from  what  Minnie  said,  I 
had  really  once  loved  Dr.  Ivor.  Horrible  and 
ghastly  as  it  might  be  to  realize  it,  I  didn't  doubt 
it  was  the  truth.  I  had  once  loved  the  very  man 
I  was  now  bent  on  pursuing  as  a  criminal  and  a 
murderer. 

"You're  sure  that's  him,  Minnie?"  I  cried,  try- 


tiS 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


ing  to  conceal  my  agitation.  "You're  sure  that's 
Courtcnay  Ivor,  the  man  stooping  on  the  wagon- 
top? 

Minnie  looked  at  me,  smih'ng.  She  thought  I 
was  asking  for  a  very  different  reason. 

"Yes,  that's  him,  right  enough,  dear,"  she  said. 
"I  could  tell  him  among  a  thousand.  Why,  the 
Moore  hand  alone  would  be  quite  enough  to  know 
him  by.  It's  just  like  my  own.  We've  all  of 
us  got  it — except  yourself.  I  always  said  you 
weren't  one  of  us.  You're  a  regular  born  Calling- 
ham." 

I  gazed  at  her  fixedly.     I  could  hardly  speak. 

"Oh,  Minnie!"  I  cried  once  more,  "have  you 
— have  you  any  photograph  of  him?" 

"No,  we  haven't  dear,"  Minnie  answered. 
"That  was  a  fad  of  Courtenay's,  you  know. 
Wherever  he  went,  he'd  never  be  photographed. 
He  was  annoyed  that  day  that  your  father  should 
have  taken  him  unawares.  He  hated  being  *  done,' 
he  said.  He's  so  handsome  and  so  nice,  but  he's 
not  a  bit  conceited.  And  he  was  such  a  splendid 
bicyclist !  He  rode  over  and  back  on  his  bicycle 
that  day,  and  then  ran  in  all  the  races  as  if  it  were 
nothing." 

A  light  burst  over  me  at  once.  This  was  cir- 
cumstantial evidence.  The  murderer,  who  disap- 
peared as  if  by  magic  the  moment  his  crime  was 
committed,  must  have  come  and  gone,  all  unseen, 
no  doubt,  on  his  bicycle.     He  must  have  left  it 


DF,  IVOR  OF  BAnniCOMBK. 


119 


under  the  wiiulovv  till  his  vile  deed  was  done,  and 
then  leapt  out  uj)om  it  in  a  second  and  dashed  off 
whence  he  came  like  a  flash  of  li^htnin^^ 

It  was  a  premeditated  crime,  in  that  case,  not 
the  mere  casual  result  of  a  sudden  quarrel. 

I  must  find  out  this  man  now,  were  it  only  to 
relieve  my  own  sense  of  mystery. 

"Minnie,"  I  said  once  more,  screwinp;  up  my 
courage  to  ask,  "  where's  Dr.  Ivor  now?  I  mean— - 
that  is  to  say — in  what  part  of  Canada?" 

Minnie  looked  at  mc  and  laughed. 

"There,  I  told  you  so!"  she  said  merrily. 
"It's  not  the  least  •bit  of  use  your  pretending 
you're  not  in  love  with  him,  Una.  Why,  just 
look  how  you  tremble!  You're  as  white  as  a 
ghost !  and  tiKni  you  say  you  don't  care  for  poor 
Courtcnay !  I  forget  the  exact  name  of  the  place 
wliQi'e  he  lives,  but  I've  got  it  in  my  desk,  and  I 
can  tell  you  to-morrow.  Oh,  yes ;  it's  Palmyra, 
on  the  Canada  Pacific.  I  suppose  you  want  to 
write  to  him.  Or  perhaps  you  mean  to  go  out 
and  offer  yourself  bodily." 

It  was  awful  having  to  bottle  up  the  truth  in 
one's  own  heart,  and  to  laugh  and  jest  like  this; 
but  I  endured  it  somehow. 

"No,  it's  not  that,"  I  said  gravely.  "I've 
other  reasons  of  my  own  for  asking  his  address, 
Minnie.  I  want  to  go  out  there,  it's  true;  but 
not  because  I  cherish  the  faintest  pleasing  recol- 
lection of  Dr.  Ivor  in  any  way." 


lao 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


Minnie  scanned  mc  over  in  surprise. 

"Well,  how  you  nrc  altered,  Una!"  she  cried. 
"I  love  you,  dear,  and  like  you  every  hit  as  much 
as  ever.  Hut  you've  chan^^ed  so  much.  I  don't 
think  you're  at  all  what  you  used  to  be.  You're 
so  ^rave  and  somber." 

"No  wonder,  Minnie,"  1  exclaimed,  bursting 
gladly  intt)  tears — the  excuse  was  such  a  relief; 
"no  wonder,  when  you  think  how  much  I've 
passed  throu<^h !" 

Minnie  Hunt;  her  arms  around  my  neck,  and 
kissed  me  over  and  over  a^ain. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  cried,  meking.  "What  have  I 
done?  What  have  I  said?  I  ought  never  to  have 
spoken  so.  It  was  cruel  of  me — cruel,  Una  dear. 
I  shall  stop  here  to-night,  and  sleep  with  you." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  darling!"  I  cried.  "Minnie, 
that  is  good  of  you,  I'm  so  awfully  glad.  For 
to-morrow  I  must  be  thinking  of  getting  ready 
for  Canada." 

"Canada !"  Minnie  exclaimed,  alarined.  "You're 
not  really  going  to  Canada !  Oh,  una,  you're  jok- 
ing! You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  out 
there  to  find  him?" 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine,  and  held  it  up  in  the 
air  above  her  head  solemnly. 

"Dear  cousin,"  I  said,  "I  love  you.  But  you 
must  promise  me  this  one  thing.  Whatever  may 
happen,  give  m^c  your  sacred  word  of  honor  you'll 
never  tell  anybody  what  we've  said  here  to-night. 


Dn,  n'OR  OF  n.tnnrcoArnE. 


I3T 


You'll  kill  inc  if  you  do.  I  don't  want  any  living 
soul  on  earth  to  know  of  it." 

I  spoke  so  seriously,  Minnie  felt  it  was  impor- 
tant. 

•'I  promise  you,"  she  answered,  ^'rowing  sud- 
denly far  graver  than  her  wont.  "Oh,  Una,  I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you  mean,  but  no 
torture  on   earth    shall   ever   wring  a  word   of   it 

from  me !" 

So  I  went  to  bed  in  her  arms,  and  cried  myself 
to  sleep,  thinking  with  my  latest  breath,  in  a 
tremor  of  horror,  that  I'd  found  it  at  last.  Cour- 
tenay  Ivor  was  the  name  of  my  father's  mur- 
derer ! 


I 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MY  WELCOME   TO   CAN/VDA. 

''PHE  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  was  long  and 
1  uneventful.  No  whales,  no  icebergs,  no  ex- 
citement of  any  sort.  My  fellow-passengers  said 
it  was  as  dull  as  it  was  calm.  But  as  for  me, 
I  had  plenty  to  occupy  my  mind  meanwhile. 
Strange  things  had  happened  in  the  interval,  and 
were  happening  to  me  on  the  way.  Strange 
things,  in  part,  of  my  own  internal  history. 

For  before  I  left  England,  as  I  sat  with  Aunt 
Emma  in  her  little  drawing-room  at  Barton-on- 
the-Sea,  discussing  my  plans  and  devising  routes 
Avestward,  she  made  to  me,  quite  suddenly,  an  un- 
expected confession. 

"Una,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  **you 
haven't  told  me,  my  dear,  why  you're  going  to 
Canada.  And  I  don't  want  to  ask  you.  I  know 
pretty  well.  We  needn't  touch  upon  that. 
You're  going  to  hunt  up  some  supposed  clew  to 
the  murderer." 

"Perhaps  so,  Ai  ntie,"  I  said  oracularly;  "and 
perhaps  not." 

For  I  didn't  want  it  to  get  talked  about  and  be 


133 


MY   WELCOME   TO  CANADA, 


X23 


put  into  all  the  newspapers.  And  I  knew  now  if 
I  wanted  to  keep  it  out,  I  must  first  be  silent. 

Aunt  Emma  drew  nearer  and  took  my  hand  in 
hers.  At  the  same  time,  she  held  up  the  other 
scarred  and  lacerated  palm. 

'Do  you  know  when  I  got  that,  Una?"  she 
asked,  with  a  sudden  burst.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you, 
my  child.  It  was  the  night  of  your  father's 
death.  And  I  got  it  climbing  over  the  wall  at 
The  Grange  to  escape  detection." 

My  blood  ran  cold  once  more.     What  on  earth 

could  this  mean?     Had  Auntie ?     But  no.     I 

had  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses  that  it  was 
Courtenay  Ivor.  I'd  tracked  him  down  now. 
There  was  no  room  for  doubt.  The  man  on  the 
wagon  was  the  man  who  fired  the  shot.  I  could 
have  sworn'to  that  bent  back,  of  my  own  know- 
ledge, among  a  thousand. 

I  hadn't  long  to  wait,  however.  Auntie  went 
on  after  a  short  pause. 

*T  was  there,"  she  said,  "by  accident,  trying  for 
once  to  see  you." 

I  looked  at  her  fixedly  still,  and  still  I  said 
nothing. 

*T  was  stopping  with  friends  at  the  time,  ten 
miles  off  from  Woodbury,"  Aunt  Emma  went  on, 
smoothing  my  hand  with  hers,  "and  I  longed  so 
to  see  you.  I  came  over  by  train  that  day,  and 
stopped  late  about  the  town  in  hopes  I  mig.it 
meet  you  in  the  street.     But  I  was  disappointed. 


124 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


Toward  evening  I  ventured  even  to  go  into  the 
grounds  of  The  Grange,  and  look  about  every- 
where on  the  chance  that  I  might  see  you.  Per- 
haps j^our  father  might  be  out.  I  went  round 
toward  the  window,  which  I  now  know  to  be  the 
library.  As  I  went,  I  saw  a  bicycle  leaning  up 
against  the  wall  by  the  window.  I  thought  that 
must  be  some  visitor,  but  still  I  went  on.  But 
just  as  I  reached  the  window,  I  saw  a  flash  of 
electric  light ;  and  by  the  light  I  could  make  out 
your  father's  head  and  beard.  He  looked  as  if  he 
were  talking  angrily  and  loudly  to  somebody. 
The  window  was  open.  I  was  afraid  to  stop 
longer.  In  a  sudden  access  of  fear,  I  ran  acrors 
th^  shrubbery  toward  the  gardenwall.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  was  horribly  'rightened.  Why, 
I  don't  know ;  for  nothing  had  happened  as  yet. 
I  suppose  it  was  just  the  dusk  and  the  mean 
sense  of  intrusion." 

She  paused  and  wiped  her  brow.  I  sat  still, 
and  lii^ened  eagerly. 

"Presently,"  she  went  on,  very  low,  **as  I  ran 
and  ran,  I  heard  behind  me  a  loud  crash — a  sound 
as  of  a  pistol  shot.  That  terrified  me  still  more, 
I  thought  I  was  being  pursued.  Perhaps  they 
took  me  for  a  burglar.  In  the  agony  of  my  terror, 
I  rushed  at  the  wall  in  mad  haste,  and  climbed 
over  it  anyhow.  In  climbing,  I  tore  my  hand,  as 
you  see,  and  made  myself  bleed,  oh,  terribly! 
However,  I   persevered,   and   got  down   on   the 


MV    WELCOMFi    TO  CANADA. 


125 


other  side,  with  my  clothes  very  littlo  the  worse 
for  the  scramble.  And,  fortunately,  I  was  carry- 
ing a  small  light  dust  cloak ;  I  put  it  on  at  once, 
and  it  covered  up  eve*'37thing.  Then  I  began  to 
walk  along  the  road  as  fast  as  I  could  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  station.  As  I  did  so,  a  bicycle  shot 
out  from  the  gate  in  the  opposite  direction,  going 
as  hard  as  it  could  spin,  simply  flying  toward 
Whittingham.  Three  minutes  later  a  man  came 
up  to  me,  breathless.  It  was  the  gardener  at 
The  Grange,  I  believe. 

'"Have  you  seen  anybody  go  this  way?'  he 
asked.  *A  young  man,  running  hard?  A  young 
man  in  knickerbockers?' 

**  *N — no,'  I  answered,  trembling,  for  I  was 
afraid  to  confess.     'Not  a  soui  has  gone  past !' 

"Of  course,  I  didn't  know  of  the  murder  as 
yet ;  and  I  only  wanted  to  get  off  unperceived  to 
the  station. 

"I'd  bound  up  my  hand  in  my  handkerchief  by 
that  time,  and  held  it  tight  under  my  cloak.  I 
wpnt  back  by  train  unnoticed,  and  returned  to  my 
friend's  house.  I  hadn't  even  told  them  I  was  go- 
ing to  Woodbury  at  all.  I  pretended  I'd  been 
spending  the  day  at  Whittingham.  Next  morn- 
ing, I  read  in  the  paper  of  your  father's  murder." 

I  stared  hard  at  Aunt  Emma. 

*'Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  long  ago?"  I 
cried,  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  "Why  dinn't  you 
give  evidence  and  say  so  at  the  inquest?** 


' 


126 


RECALLED    TO  LIEE, 


'M 


I    \\ 


*'Hovv  could  I?"  Aunt  Emma  answered,  look- 
ing back  at  me  appcalingly.  "The  circumstances 
were  too  suspicious.  As  it  was,  everybody  was 
running  after  the  young  man  in  knickerbockers. 
Nobody  took  any  notice  of  a  little  old  lady  in  a 
long  gray  dust-cloak.  But  if  once  I'd  confessed 
and  shown  my  wounded  hand,  who  would  ever 
have  believed  I'd  nothing  to  do  with  the  murder? 
— except  you,  perhaps,  Una.  Oh  no;  I  came 
back  here   to    my  \  home   as  fast  as  ever  I 

could,  for  I  was  reall>  ill.  I  took  to  my  bed  at 
once.  And  as  nobod}^  called  me  to  give  evidence 
at  the  inquest,  I  said  nothing  to  anybody." 

"But  the  bicycle!"  I  cried.  "The  bicycle! 
You  ought  to  have  mentioned  that.  You  were 
the  only  one  who  saw  it.  It  was  a  clew  to  the 
murderer." 

"If  I'd  told,"  Aunt  Emma  answered,  "I  should 
never  have  been  allowed  to  take  charge  of  you  at 
all.  I  thought  my  one  clear  duty  was  to  my  sis- 
ter's child ;  it  was  to  take  care  of  your  health  in 
your  shattered  condition.  And  even  now,  Una,  I 
tell  you  only  for  this:  if  you  find  out  anything 
new,  in  Canada  or  here,  try  not  to  drag  me  into 
it.  I  couldn't  stand  the  strain.  Cross-examina- 
tion would  kill  me." 

*ril  remember  it,  Auntie,"  I  said,  wearied  out 
with  excitement.  "But  I  think  you  did  wrong, 
all  the  same.  In  a  case  like  this,  it's  everybody's 
first  duty  to  tell  all  he  knows,  in  the  interests  of 
}ustice.** 


MV   WELCOME    TO   CANADA 


127 


However,  this  confession  of  Aunt  Emma's  ren- 
dered one  thing  more  certain  to  me  than  ever 
bcf  ^re.  I  was  sure  I  was  on  the  right  track  now, 
after  Courtenay  Ivor.  The  bicycle  clinched  the 
proof. 

But  I  said  nothing  as  yet  to  the  police,  or  to 
my  friendly  Inspector.  I  was  determined  to  hunt 
the  whole  thing  up  on  my  own  account  first,  and 
then  deliver  my  criminal,  when  fully  secured,  to 
the  laws  of  my  country. 

Not  that  I  was  vindictive.  Not  that  I  wanted 
to  punish  the  man.  No ;  I  shrank  terribly  from 
the  task.  But  to  relieve  myself  from  this  persis- 
tent sense  of  surrounding  mystery,  and  to  free 
others  from  suspicion,  I  felt  compelled  to  discover 
him.  It  seemed  to  me  like  a  duty  laid  upon  me 
from  without.     I  dared  not  shirk  it. 

On  the  way  out  to  Quebec,  the  sea  seemed  to 
revive  strange  memories.  I  had  never  crossed  it 
before,  except  long,  long  ago,  on  my  way  home 
from  Australia.  And  now  that  I  sat  on  deck,  in 
a  wicker-chair,  and  looked  at  the  deep  dark  waves 
by  myself,  I  began  once  more,  in  vague  snatches, 
to  recall  that  earlier  voyage.  It  came  back  to  me 
all  of  ftself.  And  that  was  quite  in  keeping  with 
my  previous  recollections.  My  past  life,  I  felt 
sure,  was  unfolding  itself  slowly  to  me  in  regular 
succession,  from  childhood  onward. 

Sitting  there  on  the  quarter-deck,  gazing  hard 
at  the  waves,  I  remembered  how  I  had  played  0:1 
a  similar  ship  years  and  years  before,  a  little  girl 


128 


RF CALLED    TO  LLFE. 


in  short  frocks,  with  my  mamma  in  a  lon^  foUliiifr. 
chair  beside  mc.  1  could  sec  ni}-  mamma,  with  a 
sort  of  friglitened  smile  on  her  poor  pale  face; 
and  she  looked  so  unhappy.  My  papa  was  there 
too,  somewhat  (jlder  and  grayer — very  unlike  the 
papa  of  my  first  Australian  picture.  His  face  was 
so  much  hairier.  Mamma  cried  a  good  deal  at 
times,  and  papa  tried  to  comfort  her.  Besides, 
what  struck  me  most,  there  was  no  more  baby.  I 
wasn't  even  allowed  to  speak  about  baby.  That 
subject  was  tabooed — perhaps  because  it  always 
made  mamma  cry  so  much,  and  press  me  hard  to 
her  bosom.  At  any  rate,  I  remembered  how 
once  I  spoke  of  baby  to  some  fellow-passenger  in 
the  saloon,  and  papa  was  very  angry,  and  caught 
me  up  in  his  arms  and  took  me  down  to  my 
berth ;  and  there  I  had  to  stop  all  day  by  myself 
(though  it  was  rolling  hard),  and  could  have  no 
fruit  for  dinner,  because  I'd  been  naughty.  I  was 
strictly  enjoined  never  to  mention  baby  to  any 
one  again,  either  then  or  at  any  time.  I  was  to 
forget  all  about  her. 

Day  after  day,  as  we  sailed  on,  reminiscences  of 
the  same  sort  crowded  thicker  and  thicker  upon 
me.  Never  reminiscences  of  my  later  life,  but 
always  early  scenes  brought  up  by  distinct  sugges- 
tions of  that  Australian  voyage.  When  we 
passed  a  ship,  it  burst  upon  me  how  we'd  passed 
such  ships  before ;  when  there  was  fire-drill  on 
deck,  I  remembered  having  assisted  years  earlier 


MY   WELCOME   TO  C.t.VJD.1. 


129 


at  just  such  fire-drill.  The  whole  past  came  hack 
hke  a  dream,  so  that  I  cnuld  reconstruct  now  tlie 
first  five  or  six  years  of  my  hfe  almost  entirely. 
And  yet,  even  so,  there  was  a  gap,  a  i)uzzle,  a 
difficulty  somehow.  I  couldn't  make  the  chro- 
nology of  this  slow-returning  memory  fit  in  as  it 
ought  with  the  chronology  of  the  facts  given  to 
me  by  i\unt  Emma  and  the  Moores  of  Torquay. 
There  was  a  constant  discrepancy.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  must  be  a  year  or  two  older  at  least 
than  they  made  me  out.  I  remembered  the  voy- 
age home  far  too  well .  for  my  age.  I  fancied  I 
went  back  further  in  my  Australian  recollections 
than  would  be  possible  from  the  dates  Aunt  Em- 
ma assigned  me. 

Slowly,  as  I  compared  these  mental  pictures  of 
my  first  childhood  one  with  the  other,  a  strange 
fact  seemed  to  loom  forth,  incomprehensible,  in- 
credible.* When  first  it  struck  me,  all  unnerved 
as  I  was,  my  reason  staggered  before  it.  But  it 
was  true,  none  the  less;  quite  true,  I  felt  certain. 
Had  I  had  two  papas,  then? — for  the  pictures  dif- 
fered so.  Was  one,  clean-shaven,  trim,  and  in  a 
linen  coat,  th;^  same  as  the  other,  older,  graver, 
and  sterner,  with  much  hair  on  his  face,  and  a 
rough  sort  of  look,  whom  I  saw  more  persistently 
in  my  later  childish  memories?  I  could  hardly 
believe  it.  One  man  couldn't  alter  so  greatly  in 
a  few  short  years.  Yet  I  thought  of  them  both 
alike  quite  unquestioningly  as  papa;   I  thought 


130 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE, 


I 


of  them  too.  I  fancied,  in  a  dim  sort  of  way,  as 
one  and  the  same  person. 

These  fresh  mysteries  occupied  my  mind  for 
the  greater  part  of  that  uneventful  voyage.  To 
throw  them  off,  I  laughed  and  talked  as  much  as 
possible  with  the  rest  of  the  passengers.  Indeed, 
I  gained  the  reputation  of  being  "an  awfully  jolly 
girl,"  so  heartily  did  I  throw  myself  into  all  the 
games  and  amusements,  to  escape  from  the  bur- 
den of  my  pressing  thoughts;  and  I  believe  many 
old  ladies  on  board  were  thoroughly  scandalized 
that  a  woman  whose  father  had  been  brutally  mur- 
dered should  ever  be  able  to  seem  so  bright  and 
lively  again.  How  little  they  knew !  And  what  a 
world  of  mystery  seemed  to  oppress  and  surround 
me! 

At  last,  early  one  morning,  we  reached 
the  Gulf,  and  took  in  our  pilot  off  the  Straits 
of  Belle  Isle.  I  was  on  deck  at  the  time,  play- 
ing a  game  called  "Shovelboard."  As  the  pilot 
reached  the  ship,  he  took  the  captain's  hand, 
and,  to  my  immense  surprise,  said  in  an  audible 
voice : 

"So  you've  the  famous  Miss  Callingham  for  a 
passenger,  I  hear,  this  voyage.  There's  the  latest 
Quebec  papers.  You'll  see  you're  looked  for. 
Our  people  are  expecting  her." 

I  rushed  forward,  fiery  hot,  and  with  a  trem- 
bling hand  took  one  of  the  papers  he  was  distrib- 
uting all  round,  right  and  left,  to  the  people  on 


MV  IVErCOME   TO  CANADA. 


131 


I 


deck.  It  was  uncnduniblc  that  the  memory  of 
that  one  event  should  thus  dog  me  through  life 
with  such  ubiquitous  persistence.  I  tore  open 
the  sheet.  There,  with  horrified  eyes,  I  read  this 
hateful  paragraph,  in  the  atrociously  vulgar  style 
of  Trans-Atlantic  journalism: 

The  Sannatian,  expected  off  Belle  Isle  to-morrow  morn- 
ing-, brings  among  her  passengers,  as  we  learn  by  telegram, 
the  famous  Una  Callingham,  whose  connection  witli  the  so- 
called  Woodbury  Mystery  is  now  a  matter  of  historical  in- 
terest. The  mysterious  two-soulcd  lady  possesses,  at  pres- 
ent, all  her  faculties  intact,  as  before  the  murder,  and  is 
indeed,  people  say,  a  remarkably  spry  and  intelligent  young 
person  ;  but  siie  has  most  conveniently  forgotten  all  the 
events  of  her  past  life,  and  more  particularly  the  circur  i- 
stances  of  her  father's  death,  which  is  commonly  conjectured 
to  have  been  due  to  the  pistol  of  some  unknown  lover.  Such 
freaks  of  memory  are  common,  we  all  know,  in  the  matter 
of  small  debts  and  of  newspaper  subscriptions,  but  they  sel- 
dom extend  quite  so  far  as  the  violent  death  of  a  near  rela- 
tion. However,  Una  knows  her  own  business  best.  The 
Sannatian  is  due  alongside  the  Bousecou.:.  Quay  at  10  a.  m. 
on  Wednesday,  the  loth ;  and  all  Quebec  will,  no  doubt,  be 
assembled  at  the  landing-stage  to  say  "  Good-morning  "  to 
the  two-souled  lady. 

The  paper  dropped  from  my  hand.  This  was 
too  horrible  for  anything!  How  I  was  ever  to  go 
through  the  ordeal  of  the  landing  at  Quebec  after 
that,  I  hadn't  the  faintest  conception.  And  was 
I  to  be  dogged  and  annoyed  like  this  through  all 
my  Canadian  trip  by  anonymous  scribblers?     Had 


ija 


RECALLED    TO   LIFE. 


these  people  no  hearts;  no  consideration  for  the 
sensitiveness  of  an  English  lady? 

I  looked  over  the  side  of  the  ship  at  the  dark 
blue  water.  Oh,  how  I  longed  to  plunge  into  it 
and  be  released  forever  from  this  abiding  night- 
mare! 


irk 

it 

It- 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  NKW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

THE  moment  we  reached  the  quay  at  Quebec, 
some  two  days  later,  a  dozen  young  men,  with 
little  notebooks  in  their  hands,  jumped  on  board 
all  at  once. 

"Miss  Callingham  !'*  they  cried  with  one  accord, 
making  a  dash  for  the  quarter-deck.  "Which  is 
she?  Oh,  this!  If  you  please.  Miss  Callingham, 
I  should  like  to  have  ten  minutes  f^i  your  time  to 
interview  you !" 

I  clapped  my  hands  to  my  ears,  and  stood  back, 
all  horrified.  What  I  should  have  done,  I  don't 
know,  but  for  a  very  kind  man  in  a  big  rough 
overcoat,  who  had  jumped  on  board  at  the  same 
time,  and  made  over  to  me  like  the  reporters.  He 
stepped  up  to  me  at  once,  pushed  aside  the  young- 
men,  and  said  in  a  most  friendly  tone  : 

"Miss  Callingham,  I  think?  You'd  better  come 
with  me,  then.  These  people  are  all  sharks. 
Everybody  in  Quebec's  agog  to  see  the  Two- 
souled  Lady.  Answer  no  questions  at  all.  Take 
not  the  least  notice  of  them.  Just  follow  me  to 
the  Custom  House.  Let  them  rave,  but  don't 
speak  to  them." 

»33 


II 


i 


«34 


RECA!.!.E!)    TO  LIFE, 


'Who  are  you?"  I  asked  blindly,  clinging  to 
his  arm  in  my  terror. 

"I'm  a  policeman  in  plain  clothes,"  my  new 
friend  answertxl ;  "and  I've  been  specially  detailed 
by  order  for  this  duty.  I'm  here  to  look  after 
you.  You've  friends  in  Canada,  though  you  may 
have  quite  forgotten  them.  They've  sent  me  to 
help  you.  Those  are  two  of  my  chums  there, 
standing  aside  by  the  gangway.  We'll  walk  you 
off  between  us.  Uon't  be  afraid.  Mere,  you  sir, 
there;  make  way!     No  one  shall  come  near  you." 

I  was  so  nervous,  and  so  ashamfxl,  that  I  ac- 
cepted my  strange  escort  without  inquiry  or  re- 
monstrance. He  helped  me,  with  remarkable 
politeness  for  a  common  policeman,  across  to 
the  Custom  House,  where  I  sat  waiting  for  my 
luggage.  Reporters  and  sightseers,  meanwhile, 
pressed  obtrusively  around  me.  My  protector 
held  them  back.  I  was  half  wild  with  embarrass- 
ment. I'm  naturally  a  reserved  and  somewhat 
sensitive  girl,  and  this  American  publicity  made 
me  crimson  with  bashfulness. 

As  I  sat  there  waiting,  however,  the  two  other 
policemen  to  whom  my  champion  had  beckoned 
sat  one  on  each  side  of  me,  keeping  off  the  idle 
crowd,  while  my  first  friend  looked  after  the  lug- 
gage and  saw  it  safely  through  the  Customs  for 
me.  He  must  be  an  Inspector,  I  fancied,  or  some 
other  superior  officer,  the  officials  were  so  defer- 
ential  to  him.     I   gave   him   my   keys,  and   he 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE, 


«35 


looked  after  everything  himself.  I  had  nothing, 
for  my  part,  to  do  but  to  sit  and  wait  patiently 
for  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  finished,  he  called  a  porter  to 
his  side. 

*'  ViteT'  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  authority,  to  the 
man.     ''Un  fiacre  T 

And  the  porter  called  one. 

I  started  to  find  that  I  knew  what  he  meant. 
Till  that  moment,  in  my  Second  State,  I  had 
learned  no  French,  and  didn't  know  I  could  speak 
any.  But  I  recognized  the  vords  quite  well  as 
soon  as  he  uttered  them.  My  lost  knowledge 
reasserted  itself. 

They  bundled  on  my  boxes.  The  crowd  still 
stood  around  and  gaped  at  me,  open-mouthed. 
I  got  into  the  cab,  more  dead  than  alive. 

''AllezT  my  policeman  cried  to  the  Frencn- 
Canadian  driver,  seating  himself  by  my  side.  ''A 
la  gare  du  chemin  de  fer  Pacific!  A  ttssi  vite  que 
possible/'* 

I  understood  every  word.  This  was  wonderful. 
My  memory  was  coming  back  again. 

The  man  tore  along  the  streets  to  the  Pacific 
railway  station.  By  the  time  we  reached  it  we 
had  distanced  the  sightseers,  though  some  of 
them  gave  chase.     My  policeman  got  out. 

"The  train's  just  going!"  he  said  sharply. 
"Don't  take  a  ticket  for  Palmyra,  if  you  don't 
want  to  be  followed  and  tracked  out  all  the  way. 


It 


II 


n 


.  { 


136 


RECALLED    FO  LIFE. 


w 


They'll  cclegraph  on  your  destination.  Book  to 
Kingston  instead,  and  then  change  at  Sharbot 
Lake,  and  take  a  second  ticket  on  from  there  to 
Palmyra." 

i  listened,  half  dazed.  Palmyra  was  the  place 
where  Dr.  Ivor  lived.  Yet,  even  in  the  hurry  of 
the  moment,  I  wondered  much  to  myself  how  the 
policeman  knew  I  wanted  to  go  to  Palmyra. 

There  was  no  time  to  ask  questions,  however, 
or  to  deliberate  on  my  plans.  I  took  my  ticket 
as  desired,  in  a  turmoil  of  feelings,  and  jumped 
on  to  the  train.  I  trusted  by  this  time  I  had 
eluded  detection.  I  ought  to  have  come,  I  saw 
now,  under  a  feigned  n?me.  This  horrid  pub- 
licity was  more  than  i  could  endure.  My  police- 
man helped  me  in  with  his  persistent  politeness, 
and  saw  my  boxes  checked  as  far  as  Sharbot  Lake 
for  me.     Then  he  handed  me  the  checks. 

"Go  in  the  Pullman,"  he  said  quietly.  "It's  a 
long  journey,  you  know;  four-and-twei;ty  hours. 
You've  only  just  caught  it.  But  if  you'd  stopped 
);'.  Quebec,  you'd  never  have  been  able  to  give  the 
sightseers  the  slip.  You'd  have  been  pestered  all 
through.  I  think  you're  safe  now.  It  was  this 
or  nothing." 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much!"  I  cried,  with  heart- 
felt gratitude,  leaning  out  of  the  window  as  the 
train  was  on  the  point  of  starting.  I  pulled  out 
my  purse,  and  drew  timidly  forth  a  sovereign.- 
'I've  only  English  money,"  I  said,  hesitating,  for 


««T». 


A  NE  VV  A  CQ  C/A  IN  TA  NCR . 


137 


I  didn't  know  whether  he'd  be  offended  or  not  at 
the  offer  of  a  tip — he  seemed  such  a  perfect  gen- 
tleman.    "But  if  that's  any  use  to  you " 

He  smiled  a  broad  smile  and  shook  his  head, 
m;ich  amused. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  he  said,  half  laughing,  with 
a  very  curious  air.  "I'm  a  policeman,  as  I  told 
you.  But  I  don't  need  tips.  I'm  the  Chief  Con- 
stable of  Quebec — there's  my  card ;  Major  Tas- 
cherel — and  I'm  glad  to  be  of  use,  I'm  sure,  to 
any  friend  of  Dr.  Ivor's." 

He  lifted  his  hat  with  the  inborn  grace  of 
a  high-born  gentleman.  I  colored  and  bowed. 
The  train  steamed  out  of  the  station.  As  it 
went,  I  fell  back,  half  fainting,  in  the  comfortable 
arm-chair  of  the  Pullman  car,  hardly  able  to  speak 
with  surprise  and  horror.  It  was  all  so  strange, 
so  puzzling,  so  bewildering!  Then  I  owed  my 
escape  from  the  stenographic  myrmidons  of  the 
Canadian  Press  to  the  polite  care  and  attention  of 
my  father's  murderer! 

Major  Tascherel  was  a  friend,  he  said,  of  Dr. 
Ivor's! 

Then  Dr.  Ivor  knew  I  had  come.  He  knew  I 
was  going  to  Palmyra  to  find  him.  And  yet  he 
had  written  to  Quebec,  apparently,  expecting  this 
crush,  and  asking  his  friend  the  Chief  Constable 
to  protect  and  befriend  me.  Had  he  murdered 
my  father,  and  was  he  in  love  with  me  still?  Did 
he  think  I'd  come  out,  not  to  track  him  down, 


II 


138 


RECALLED   TO  LLFE. 


'ti 


'li 


but  to  look  for  him?  Strange,  horrible  questions! 
My  heart  stood  still  within  me  at  this  extraordi- 
nary revelation.  Yet  I  was  so  frightened  at  the 
moment,  alone  in  a  strange  land,  that  I  felt  al- 
most grateful  to  the  murderer  himself  for  his 
kindness  in  thinking  of  me  and  providing  for  my 
reception. 

As  I  settled  in  my  seat  and  had  time  to  realize 
what  these  things  meant,  it  dawned  upon  me  by 
degrees  that  all  this  was  less  remarkable,  after  all, 
than  I  first  thought  it.  For  they  had  telegraphed 
from  England  that  I  sailed  on  the  Sarmatian; 
and  Dr.  Ivor,  like  everybody  else,  must  have  read 
the  telegram.  He  might  naturally  conclude  I 
would  be  half-mobbed  by  reporters ;  and  as  it  was 
clear  he  had  once  been  fond  of  me, — hateful  as  I 
felt  it  even  to  admit  the  fact  to  myself, — he  might 
really  have  desired  to  save  me  annoyance  and 
trouble.  It  was  degrading,  to  be  sure,  even  to 
think  I  owed  anything  of  any  sort  to  such  a 
wretch  as  that  murderer;  yet  in  a  certain  corner 
of  my  heart  I  couldn't  help  being  thankful  to  him. 

But  how  strange  to  feel  I  had  come  there  on 
purpose  to  hunt  him  down !  How  horrible  that 
I  must  so  repay  good  with  evil ! 

Then  a  still  more  ghastly  thought  surged  up 
suddenly  in  my  mind.  Why  on  earth  did  he 
think  I  was  going  to  Palmyra?  Was  it  possible 
he  fancied  I  loved  him  still — that  I  wanted  to 
marry  him?    Could  he  imagine  I'd  come  out  just 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 


139 


to  fling  myself  at  his  feet  and  ask  him  to  take  me? 
Could  he  suppose  I'd  forgotten  all  the  rest  of  my 
past  life,  and  his  vile  act  as  well,  and  yet  remem- 
bered alone  what  little  love,  if  any,  I  ever  had 
borne  him.  It  was  incredible  that  any  man,  how- 
ever wicked,  however  conceited,  should  think  such 
folly  as  that — that  a  girl  would  marry  her  father's 
murderer;  and  yet  what  might  not  one  expect 
from  a  man  who,  after  having  shot  my  father,  had 
still  the  inconceivable  and  unbelievable  audacity 
to  take  deliberate  steps  for  securing  my  own  com- 
fort and  happiness?  From  such  a  wretch  as  that, 
one  might  look  for  almost  anything ! 

For  ten  minutes  or  more,  as  we  whirled  along 
the  line  in  the  Pullman  car,  I  was  too  dazed  and 
confused  to  notice  anything  around  me.  My 
brain  swam  vaguely,  filled  fu^^  with  wild  whirling 
thoughts;  the  strange  drama  -f  my  life,  always 
teeming  with  mysteries,  seemed  to  uiminate  in 
this  reception  in  an  unknown  land  by  people  who 
appeared  almost  to  know  more  about  my  business 
than  I  myself  did.  I  gazed  out  of  the  window 
blankly.  In  some  vague  dim  way  I  saw  we  were 
passing  between  rocky  hills,  pine-clad  and  beauti- 
ful, with  deep  glimpses  now  and  then  intt  Jie 
riven  gorge  of  a  noble  river.  But  I  didn't  even 
realize  to  myself  that  these  were  Canadian  hills — 
those  were  the  heights  of  Abraham — that  was  the 
silver  St.  Lawrence.  It  all  passed  by  like  a  living 
dream,    I  sat  still  in  my  chair,  as  one  stunned  and 


I 


i\  ' 


Uo 


RECALLED    7'0  LIFE. 


faint ;  I  <^azcd  out,  more  dead  tlian  alive,  on  the 
unfamiliar  scene  that  unrolled  itself  in  exquisite 
panorama  before  nie.  Quebec  and  the  Lawren- 
tian  hills  were  to  me  half  unreal:  the  inner  senses 
alone  were  awake  and  conscious 

Presently  a  gentle  voice  at  my  side  broke,  not 
at  all  unpleasantly,  the  current  of  my  reflections. 
It  was  a  lady's  voice,  very  sweet  and  musical. 

"I'm  afraid,"  it  said  kindly,  with  an  air  of  ten- 
der solicitude,  "you  only  just  caught  the  train, 
and  were  hurried  and  worried  and  flurried  at  the 
last  at  the  station.  You  look  so  white  and  tired. 
How  your  breath  comes  and  goes!  And  I  think 
you're  new  to  our  Canadian  ways.  I  saw  you 
didn't  understand  about  the  checks  for  the  bag- 
gage. Let  me  take  away  this  bag  and  put  it  up 
in  the  rack  for  you.  Here's  a  footstool  for  your 
feet ;  that'll  make  you  more  comfortable." 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  sw  t  voice,  I  turned 
to  look  at  the  speaker.  She  was  a  girl,  perhaps  a 
year  or  two  younger  than  myself,  veiy  slender 
and  graceful,  and  with  eyes  like  a  mother's.  She 
wasn't  exactly  pretty,  but  her  face  was  so  full  of 
intelligence  and  expression  that  it  was  worth  a 
great  deal  more  than  any  doll-like  prettiness. 
Perhaps  it  was  pleasure  at  being  spoken  to  kindly 
at  all  in  this  land  of  strangers,  perhaps  it  was  re- 
vulsion from  the  agony  of  shame  and  modesty  I 
had  endured  at  Quebec;  but,  at  any  rate,  I  felt 
drawn  at  first  sight  to  my  sweet-voiced  fellow-trav- 


A  NEW  ACQ UA IN TA NCE. 


141 


:ss. 

dly 

re- 

yi 

tfelt 
rav- 


eler.  Besides,  she  reminded  me  somewhat  of 
Minnie  Moore,  and  that  resemblance  .Jone  was 
enough  to  attract  me.  I  looked  up  at  her  grate- 
fully. 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much !"  I  cried,  putting  my 
bag  in  her  hand.  "I've  only  just  come  out  from 
England;  and  I'd  hardly  time  at  Quebec  to  catch 
the  triin ;  and  the  people  crowded  around  so,  that 
I  was  flustered  at  landing;  and  everything  some- 
how seems  to  be  going  against  me." 

And  with  that  my  poor  overwrought  nerves 
gave  way  all  at  once,  and  without  any  more  ado  I 
just  burst  out  crying. 

The  lady  by  my  side  leant  over  me  tenderly. 

"There — cry,  dear,"  she  said,  as  if  she'd  known 
me  for  years,  stooping  down  and  almost  caressing 
me.  "Jack," — and  she  turned  to  a  tall  gentle- 
man at  her  side, — "quick!  you've  got  my  black 
bag;  get  me  out  the  sal  volatile.  She's  quite 
faint,  poor  thing;  we  must  look  after  her  in- 
stantly." 

The  person  to  whom  she  spoke,  and  who  was 
apparently  her  husband  or  her  brother,  took  down 
the  black  bag  from  the  rack  hastily,  and  got  out 
the  sal  volatile,  as  my  friend  directed  him.  He 
poured  a  little  into  a  tumbler  and  held  it  quietly 
to  my  lips.  I  liked  his  manner,  as  I'd  liked  the 
lady's.  He  was  so  very  brotherly.  Besides,  there 
was  something  extremely  soothing  about  his 
quick,  noiseless  way.     He  did  it  all  so  fast,  yet 


H 


'A 
It    li 


•r: 


5  ! 


142 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


without  the  faintest  sign  of  agitation.  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  what  a  good  nurse  he  would  make ; 
he  was  so  rapid  and  effective,  yet  so  gentle  and  so 
quiet.  He'  seemed  perfectly  accustomed  to  the 
ways  of  nervous  women. 

I  dried  my  eyes  after  a  while,  and  looked  up  in 
his  face.  He  was  very  good-looking,  and  had  a 
charming  soft  smile.  How  lucky  I  should  have 
tumbled  upon  such  pleasant  traveling  compan- 
ions !  In  my  present  mental  state,  I  had  need  of 
sympathy.  And,  indeed,  they  took  as  much  care 
of  me,  and  coddled  me  up  as  tenderly,  as  if  they'd 
known  me  for  years.  I  was  almost  tempted  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  my  personality  to  them, 
and  tell  them  why  it  was  I  had  been  so  worried 
and  upset  by  my  reception  at  Quebec:  but  I 
shrank  from  confessing  it.  I  hated  my  own  name, 
almost,  it  seemed  to  bring  me  such  very  unpleas- 
ant notoriety. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  I  felt  quite  at  home  with 
my  new  friends.  I  explained  to  them  that  when 
I  landed  I  had  no  intention  of  going  on  West  by 
train  at  once,  but  that  news  which  I  received  on 
the  way  had  compelled  me  to  push  forward  by 
the  very  first  chance ;  and  that  I  had  to  change 
my  ticket  at  a  place  called  Sharbot  Lake,  whose 
very  position  or  distance  I  hadn't  had  time  to  dis- 
cover. The  lady  smiled  sweetly,  and  calmed  my 
fears  by  telling  me  we  wouldn't  reach  Sharbot 
Lake  till  mid-day  to-morrow,  and  that  I  would 


i    \ 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE, 


143 


ith 
en 
by 
on 
by 


have  plenty  of  time  there  to  book  on  to  my  desti- 
nation. 

Thus  encouraged,  I  went  on  to  tell  them  I  had 
no  Canadian  money,  having  brought  out  what  I 
needed  for  traveling  expenses  and  hotels  in  Bank 
of  England  ;f  20  notes.  The  lady  smiled  again, 
and  said  in  the  friendliest  way : 

"Oh,  my  brother'll  get  them  changed  for  you  at 
Montreal  as  we  pass,  won't  you.  Jack?  or  at  least 
as  much  as  you  need  till  you  get  to" — she  checked 
herself — "the  end  of  your  journey." 

I  noticed  how  she  pulled  herself  up,  though  at 
the  moment  I  attached  no  particular  importance 
to  it. 

So  he  was  her  brother,  not  her  husband,  then ! 
Well,  he  was  a  very  nice  fellow,  either  way,  and 
nobody  could  be  kinder  or  more  sympathetic  than 
he'd  been  to  me  so  far. 

We  fell  into  conversation,  which  soon  by  de- 
grees grew  quite  intimate. 

"How  far  West  are  you  going?"  the  man  she 
called  Jack  asked  after  a  little  time,  tentatively. 

And  I  answered,  all  unsuspiciously: 

"To  a  place  called  Palmyra." 

"Why,  we  live  not  far  from  Palmyra,"  the  sis- 
ter replied,  with  a  smile.  "We're  going  that  way 
now.  Our  station's  Adolphus  Town,  the  very 
next  village." 

I  hadn't  yet  learned  to  join  the  wisdom  of  the 
serpent  to  the  innocence  of  the  dove,  I'ni  afraid. 


m 


144 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


Remember,  though,  in  some  ways  I  was  a  woman 
full  grown,  in  others  I  was  little  more  than  a  four- 
year-old  baby. 

"Do  you  know  a  Dr.  Ivor  there?"  I  asked 
eagerly,  leaning  forward. 

"Oh,  yes,  quite  well,"  the  lady  answered,  arrang- 
ing my  footstool  more  comfortably  as  she  spoke. 
"He's  got  a  farm  out  there  now,  and  hardly  prac- 
tices at  all.  How  queer  it  is!  One  always  finds 
one  knows  people  in  common.  Is  Dr.  Ivor  a 
friend  of  yours?" 

I  recoiled  at  the  stray  question  almost  as  if  I'd 
been  shot.  "Oh,  no!"  I  cried,  horrified  at  the 
bare  idea  of  such  treason.     "He's  anything  but 

a  friend I — I  only  wanted  to  know  about 

him." 

The  lady  looked  at  Jack,  and  Jack  looked  at 
the  lady.  Were  they  telegraphing  signs?  I  fan- 
cied somehow  they  gave  one  another  very  mean- 
ing glances.  Jack  was  the  first  to  speak,  breaking 
an  awkward  silence. 

"You  can't  expect  every  one  to  know  your  own 
friends,  or  to  like  them  either,  Elsie,"  he  said 
slowly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  hard  on  her,  as  if  he 
expected  her  to  flare  up. 

My  heart  misgave  me.  A  hateful  idea  arose  in 
it.  Could  my  sweet  traveling  companion  be  en- 
gaged to  my  father's  murderer? 

"But  he's  a  dear  good  fellow,  for  all  that.  Jack," 
Elsie  said  stoutly ;  and  strange  as  it  sounds  to  say 


A  NEW  ACQUAWTANCE, 


X45 


>> 


so,  I  admired  her  for  sticking  up  for  her  friend  Dr. 
Ivor,  if  she  really  liked  him.  "I  won't  hear  him 
run  down  by  anybody,  not  even  hy  you.  If  this 
lady  knew  him  better,  I'm  sure  she'd  like  him,  as 
we  all  do." 

Jack  turned  the  conversation  abruptly. 

"But  if  you're  going  to  Palmyra,"  he  asked, 
"where  do  you  mean  to  stop?  Have  you  thought 
about  lodgings?  You  mustn't  imagine  it's  a  place 
like  an  English  town,  with  an  inn  or  hotel  or  good 
private  apartments.  There's  nowhere  you  can 
put  up  in  these  brand-new  villages.  Are  you 
going  to  friends,  or  did  you  expect  to  find  quar- 
ters as  easily  as  in  England?" 

This  was  a  difficulty  which,  indeed,  had  never 
even  occurred  to  me  till  that  moment.  I  stam- 
mered and  hesitated. 

"Well,"  I  said  slowly,  "to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
haven't  thought  about  that.  The  landing  at 
Quebec  was  such  a  dreadful  surprise  to  me,  and" — 
tears  came  into  my  eyes  again — "I  had  a  great 
shock  there — and  I  had  to  come  on  so  quick,  I 
didn't  ask  about  anything  but  catching  the  train. 
I  meant  to  stop  a  night  or  two  either  at  Quebec 
or  in  Montreal,  and  to  make  all  in^^uiries;  but  cir- 
cumstances, you  see,  have  prevented  that.  So  I 
really  don't  know  what  I'd  better  do  when  I  get 
to  Palmyra." 

"I  do,"  my  new  friend  answered  quickly,  her 
soft,  sweet  voice  having  quite  a  decisive  ring  in  it. 


!^ 


146 


RECALLED    TO  IJFE. 


"You'd  better  n«>l  ^^o  on  to  l\ilmyra  at  all. 
There's  no  sort  of  accommodation  tluMc,  excipt  a 
horrid  drinkin^-saloon.  VouM  better  stop  short 
at  Adolphus  Town  ant!  spend  the  night  with  us; 
and  then  you  can  look  about  you  next  day,  if  you 
like,  and  see  what  chance  there  may  be  of  finding 
decent  quarters.  Old  Mrs.  Wilkins  might  take 
her  in.  Jack,  or  the  Blacks  at  the  tannery." 

I  smiled,  and  felt  touched. 

*'0h,  how  good  of  you  !"  I  cried.  "But  I  really 
couldn't  think  of  it.  Thank  you  ever  so  much, 
though,  for  your  kind  thought,  all  the  same.  It's 
so  good  and  sweet  of  you.  But  you  don't  even 
know  who  I  am.     I  have  no  introduction." 

"You're  your  own  best  introduction,"  Elsie 
said,  with  a  pretty  nod;  I  thought  of  her  some- 
how from  the  very  first  moment  I  heard  her  name 
as  Elsie.  "And  as  to  your  not  knowing  us,  never 
mind  about  that.  Wc  know  yoii  at  first  sight. 
It's  the  Canadian  way  to  entertain  angels  un- 
awares. Out  here,  you  know,  hospitality's  the 
rule  of  the  country." 

Well,  I  demurred  for  a  long  time;  I  fought  off 
their  invitation  as  well  as  I  could ;  I  couldn't  bear 
thus  to  quarter  myself  upon  utter  strangers.  But 
they  both  were  so  pressing,  and  brought  up  so 
many  cogent  arguments  why  I  couldn't  go  alone 
to  the  one  village  saloon, — a  mere  whisky-drinking 
public-house,  they  said,  of  very  bad  character, — 
that  in  the  long  run  I  was  fain  almost  to  acquiesce 


A   NEiy  ACQ UA IX TA XCK. 


«47 


a 


in  their  kind  plan  for  my  temporary  housing. 
Besides,  after  my  horrid  experience  at  Quebec,  it 
was  such  a  positive  relief  to  me  to  meet  anybody 
nice  and  delicate,  that  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  refuse  these  dear  people.  And  then,  perhaps 
it  was  best  not  to  go  quite  on  to  Palmyra  at  once, 
for  fear  of  unexpectedly  running  against  my 
father's  murderer.  If  I  met  him  in  the  street, 
and  he  recognized  me  and  spoke  to  me,  what  on 
earth  could  I  do?  My  head  was  all  in  a  whirl, 
indeed,  as  to  what  he  might  intend  or  expect ;  for 
I  felt  sure  he  expected  me.  I  made  one  last  de- 
spairing effort. 

"If  I  stop  at  your  house,  though,"  I  said,  half 
ashamed  of  myself  for  venturing  to  make  condi- 
tions, "there's  one  promise  you  must  make  me — 
that  I  shan't  see  Dr.  Ivor  unless  you  let  me  know 
and  get  my  consent  beforehand." 

Jack,  as  I  called  him  to  myself,  answered  gayly 
back  with  a  rather  curious  smile: 

"If  you  like,  you  need  see  nobody  but 
our  own  two  selves.  We'll  promise  not  to  in- 
troduce anybody  to  you  without  due  leave,  and 
to  let  you  do  as  you  like  in  that  and  in  every- 
thing." 

So  I  yielded  at  last. 

"Well,  I  must  know  your  name,"  I  said  tenta- 
tively. 

And  Jack,  looking  queerly  at  me  with  an  in- 
quiring air,  said : 


i 


^i 


s 


I4S 


RECAt.LED    TO  IJFE. 


"My  sister's  name's  Elsie;  mine's  John  Che- 
riton." 

"And  yours?"  Elsie  asked,  glancing  timidly 
down  at  me. 

My  heart  beat  hard.  I  was  face  to  face  with 
a  dilemma.  These  were  friends  of  Courtenay 
Ivor's,  and  I  had  given  myself  away  to  them.  I 
was  going  to  their  house,  to  accept  their  hospi- 
tality— and  to  betray  their  friend  !  Never  in  my 
life  did  I  feel  so  guilty  before.  Oh!  what  on 
earth  was  I  to  do?  I  had  told  them  too  much;  I 
had  gone  to  work  foolishly.  If  I  said  my  real 
name,  I  should  let  out  my  whole  secret.  I  must 
brazen  it  out  now.  With  tremulous  lips  and 
flushed  cheek,  I  answered  quickly,  "Julia  Mars- 
den." 

Elsie  drew  back,  all  abashed.  In  a  moment 
her  cheek  grew  still  redder,  I  felt  sure,  than  my 
own. 

"Oh,  Marsden !"  she  cried,  eyeing  me  closely. 
"Why,  I  thought  you  were  Miss  Callingham !" 

"How  on  earth  did  you  know  that?"  I  ex- 
claimed, terrified  almost  out  of  my  life.  Was  I 
never  for  one  moment  to  escape  my  own  person- 
ality? 

"Why,  they  put  it  in  the  papers  that  you  were 
coming,"  Elsie  answered,  looking  tenderly  at  mc, 
more  in  sympathy  than  in  anger.  "And  it's  writ- 
ten on  your  bag,  you  know,  that  Jack  put  up  in 
the   rack   there That's  why  we  were  so 


A  JVEir  ACQUAINTANCE, 


'49 


sorry  for  you,  and  so  prlcvcd  at  the  way  you 
must  have  been  hustl  d  on  the  quay.     And  that'.s 

also  why  we  wanted  you   to  come  to  us 

But  don't  be  a  bit  afraid.  We  quite  understand 
you  want  to  travel  incognito.  After  the  sort  of 
reception  you  got  at  Quebec,  no  wonder  you're 
afraid  of  these  hateful  sightseers!  ....  Very 
well,  dear,"  she  took  my  hand  with  the  air  of  an 
old  friend,  "your  disguise  shall  be  respected  while 
you  stop  at  our  house.  Miss  Marsden  let  it  be. 
You  can  make  any  inquiries  you  like  about  Dr. 
Ivor.  We  will  be  secrecy  itself.  We'll  say  noth- 
ing to  any  one.  And  my  brother'U  take  your 
ticket  at  Sharbot  Lake  for  Adolphus  Town." 

I  broke  down  once  more.  I  fairly  cried  at  such 
kindness. 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are!"  I  said.  "How  very, 
very  good.  This  is  more  than  one  could  ever 
have  expected  from  strangers." 

She  held  my  hand  and  stroked  it. 

"We're  not  strangers,"  she  answered.  "We're 
English  orrsclvcs.  We  sympathize  deeply  with 
you  in  this  new,  strange  country.  You  must  treat 
us  exactly  like  a  brother  and  sister.  We  liked 
you  at  first  sight,  and  we're  sure  we'll  get  on  with 
you." 

I  lifted  her  hand  to  my  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"And  I  liked  you  also,"  I  said,  "and  your 
brother,  too.  You're  both  so  good  and  kind. 
How  can  I  ever  sufficiently  thank  you?" 


\ 


\  (i 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


I  -i 


■I 


PH 

1     a; 


MY    PLANS    ALTER. 

E  rest  of  that  day  we  spent  ch?,tting  very 
amicably  in  our  Pullman  arm-chairs.  I 
couidn't  understand  it  myself — when  I  had  a  mo- 
ment to  think,  I  was  shocked  and  horrified  at  it. 
I  was  so  terribly  at  home  with  them.  These 
were  friends  of  Dr.  Ivor's — friends  of  my  father's 
mi  rdercr!  I  had  come  out  to  Canada  to  track 
him,  to  deliver  him  over,  if  I  could,  to  the  strong 
hand  of  Justice.  And  yet,  there  I  was  talking 
away  with  his  neighbors  and  friends  as  if  I  had 
known  them  all  my  life,  and  loved  them  dearly. 
Nay,  what  was  more,  I  couldn't  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  help  liking  them.  They  were  really  sweet 
people — so  kind  and  sympathetic,  so  perceptive 
of  my  sensitiveness.  They  asked  no  questions 
that  could  hurt  me  in  any  way.  They  showed  no 
curiosity  about  the  object  of  my  visit  or  my  rela- 
tion to  Dr.  Ivor.  They  were  kindness  and  cour- 
tesy itself.  I  could  see  Mr.  Cheriton  was  a  gentle- 
man in  fiber,  and  Elsie  was  as  sweet'as  any  woman 
on  earth  could  be. 
By  and  by,  the  time  came   for  the  Pullman 

ISO 


MY  PLANSi  ALTER, 


151 


saloon  to  be  transformed  for  the  night  into  a  reg- 
ular sleeping-car.  All  this  was  new  to  me,  and  I 
watched  it  with  interest.  As  soon  as  the  beds 
were  made  up,  I  crept  into  my  berth,  and  my  new 
friend  Elsie  took  her  place  on  the  sofa  below  me. 
I  lay  awake  long  and  thought  over  the  situation. 
The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  stranger  it  all 
seemed.  I  tried  hard  to  persuade  myself  I  was 
running  some  great  danger  in  accepting  the  Che- 
riton's  invitation.  Certainly,  I  had  behaved  with 
consummate  imprudence.  Canada  is  a  country, 
I  said  to  myself,  where  they  kidnap  and  murder 
well-to-do  young  Englishmen.  How  much  easier, 
then,  to  kidnap  and  murder  a  poor,  weak,  stray 
English  girl !  I  was  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the 
Cheritons,  that  was  clear ;  and  the  Cheritons  were 
Dr.  Ivor's  friends.  As  I  thought  all  tlie  circum- 
stances over,  the  full  folly  of  my  own  conduct 
came  home  to  me  more  and  more.  I  had  let 
these  people  suppose  I  was  traveling  under  an  as- 
sumed name.  I  had  let  them  know  my  ticlcet 
was  not  for  Palmyra  but  for  Kingston,  where  I 
didn't  mean  to  go.  I  had  told  them  I  meant  to 
change  it  at  Sharbot  Lake.  So  they  were  aware 
tha(-  no  one  on  earth  but  themselves  had  any  idea 
where  I  had  gone.  And  I  had  further  divulged 
to  them  the  important  fact  that  I  had  plenty  of 
ready  money  in  Bank  of  England  notes !  I  stood 
aghast  at  my  own  silliness.  But  still,  I  did  not 
distrust  them. 


I 


152 


/RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


No,  I  did  not  distrust  them.  I  felt  I  ought  to 
be  distrustful.  I  felt  it  might  be  expected  of  me. 
But  they  were  so  gentle-mannered  and  so  sweet- 
natured,  that  I  couldn't  distrust  them.  I  tried 
very  hard,  but  distrust  wouldn't  come  to  me. 
That  kind  fellow  Jack — I  thought  of  him,  just  so, 
as  Jack  already — couldn't  hurt  a  fly,  much  less 
kill  a  woman,  it  grieved  me  to  think  I  would 
have  to  hurt  his  feelings. 

For  now  that  I  came  to  look  things  squarely  in 
the  face  in  my  berth  by  myself,  I  began  to  see 
how  utterly  impossible  it  would  be  for  me  after 
all  to  go  and  stop  with  the  Cheritons.  How  I 
could  ever  have  dreamt  it  feasible  I  could  hardly 
conceive.  I  ought  to  have  refused  at  once.  I 
ought  to  have  been  braver.  I  ought  to  have  said 
outright :  "I'll  have  nothing  to  do  or  say  with  any 
one  who  is  a  friend  or  an  acquaintance  of  Courte- 
nay  Ivor's."  And  yet,  to  have  said  so  would  have 
been  to  give  up  the  game  for  lost.  It  would  have 
been  to  proclaim  that  I  had  come  out  to  Canada 
as  Courtenay  Ivor's  enemy. 

I  wasn't  fit,  that  was  the  fact,  for  my  self-im- 
posed tc.sk  of  private  detective. 

A  good  part  of  that  night  I  lay  awake  in  my 
berth,  bitterly  reproaching  myself  for  having 
come  on  this  wild-goose  chase  without  the  aid  of  a 
man — an  experienced  officer.  Next  morning,  I 
rose  and  breakfasted  in  the  car.  The  Cheritons 
breakfasted  with  me,  and,  sad  to  say,  seemed  more 


MV  PLAN'S  ALTER. 


153 


charming  than  ever.  That  good  fellow  Jack  was 
so  attentive  and  kind,  I  almost  felt  ashamed  to 
have  to  refuse  his  hospitality;  and  as  for  Elsie, 
she  couldn't  have  treated  me  more  nicely  or  cor- 
dially if  she'd  been  my  own  sister.  It  wasn't 
what  they  said  that  touched  my  heart ;  it  was 
what  they  didn't  say  or  do — their  sweet,  generous 
reticence. 

After  breakfast,  I  steeled  myself  for  the  task, 
and  broke  it  to  them  gently  that,  thinking  it 
over  in  the  night,  I'd  come  to  the  conclusion  I 
couldn't  consistently  accept  their  proffered  wel- 
come. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  say  no  to  you,"  I  cried, 
"after  you've  been  so  wonderfully  kind  and  nice; 
but  reasons  which  I  can't  fully  explain  just  now 
make  me  feel  it  would  be  wrong  of  me  to  think  of 
stopping  with  you.  It  would  hamper  my  inde- 
pendence of  action  to  be  in  anybody  else's  house. 
I  must  shift  for  myself,  and  try  if  I  can't  find 
board  and  lodging  somewhere."  * 

"Find  it  with  us  then!"  Elsie  put  in  eagerly. 
"If  that's  all  that's  the  matter,  I'm  sure  we're  not 
proud — are  we.  Jack? — not  a  bit.  Sooner  than 
you  should  go  elsewhere  and  be  uncomfortable 
in  your  rooms,  I'd  take  you  in  myself,  and 
board  you,  and  look  after  you.  You  could  pay 
what  you  like;  and  then  you'd  retain  your  in- 
dependence, you  see,  as  much  as  ever  you 
wanted," 


154 


RECALLED    TO  LJEE. 


But  her  brother  interrupted  her  with  a  some- 
what graver  air: 

"It  goes  deeper  than  that,  I'm  afraid,  Elsie," 
he  said,  turning  liis  eye  full  upon  her.  "If  Miss 
Callingham  feels  she  couldn't  be  happy  in  stop- 
ping with  us,  she'd  better  try  elsewhere.  Though 
where  on  earth  w^e  can  put  her,  I  haven't  just  now 
tlie  very  slightest  idea.  But  we'll  turn  it  over 
in  our  own  minds  before  we  reach  Adolphus 
Town." 

There  was  a  sweet  reasonableness  about  Jack 
that  attracted  me  greatly.  I  could  see  he  entered 
vaguely  into  the  real  nature  of  my  feelings.  But 
he  wouldn't  cross-question  me :  he  was  too  much 
of  a  gentleman. 

"Miss  Callingham  knows  her  own  motives  best," 
he  said  more  than  once,  when  Elsie  tried  to  re- 
turn to  the  charge.  "If  she  feels  she  can't  come 
to  us,  we  must  be  content  to  do  the  best  we  can 
for  her  with  our  neighbors.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Wal- 
ters would  take  her  in  :  she's  our  clergyman's  wafe, 
Miss  Callingham,  and  you  mightn't  feel  the  same 
awkwardness  with  her  as  with  my  sister." 

"Does  she  know — Dr.  Ivor?"  I  faltered  out, 
unable  to  conceal  my  real  reasons  entirely. 

"Not  so  intimately  as  we  do,"  Jack  answered, 
with  a  quick  glance  at  his  sister.  "We  might  ask 
her,  at  any  rate.  There  are  so  few  houses  in  Pal- 
myra, or  the  neighborhood,  where  you  could  live 
as  you're  accustomed,  that  we  musn't  be  particu- 


1 


MY  PLANS  ALTER. 


155 


lar.  But  at  least  you'll  spend  one  nij;ht  with  us, 
and  then  we  can  arrange  all  the  other  things  after- 
ward." 

My  mind  was  made  up. 

"No,  not  even  one  night,"  I  said.  I  couldn't 
accept  hospitality  from  Dr.  Ivor's  friends.  Be- 
tween his  faction  and  mine  there  could  be  noth- 
ing now  but  the  bitterest  enmity.  How  dare  I 
even  parley  with  people  who  were  friends  of  my 
father's  murderer? 

Yet  I  was  sorry  to  disappoint  that  good  fellow, 
Jack,  all  the  same.  Did  he  want  me  to  sleep  one 
night  at  his  house  on  purpose  to  rob  me  and  mur- 
der me?  Girl  as  I  was,  and  rendered  timorous  in 
some  ways  by  the  terrible  shocks  I  had  received, 
I  couldn't  for  one  moment  believe  it.  I  knetv  he 
was  good.  I  knew  he  was  honorable,  gentle,  a 
gentleman. 

So,  journeying  on  all  morning,  we  reached  Shar- 
bot  Lake,  still  with  nothing  decided.  At  the  lit- 
tle junction  station,  Jack  got  me  my  ticket.  That 
was  the  turning  point  in  my  career.  The  die  was 
cast.  There  I  lost  my  identity.  A  crowd  lounged 
around  the  platform,  and  surged  about  the  Pull- 
man car,  calling  to  see  "Una  Callingham."  But 
no  Una  Callingham  appeared  on  the  scene.  I 
went  on  in  the  same  train,  without  a  word  to  any- 
one, all  unknown  save  to  the  two  Cheritons,  and 
as  an  unrecognized  unit  of  common  humanity.  I 
had  cast  that  horrid  identity  clean  behind  me, 


156 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


The  afternoon  was  pleasant.  In  spite  of  my 
uncertainty,  it  gave  me  a  sense  of  pleased  confi- 
dence to  be  in  the  Cheritons*  company.  I  had 
taken  to  them  at  once,  and  the  more  I  talked 
with  them,  the  better  I  liked  them.  Especially 
Jack,  that  nice  brotherly  Jack,  who  seemed  al- 
most like  an  old  friend  to  me.  You  get  to  know 
people  so  well  on  a  long  railway  journey.  I  was 
quite  sorry  to  think  that  by  five  o'clock  that  after- 
noon we  should  reach  Adolphus  Town,  and  so 
part  company. 

About  ten  minutes  to  five  we  were  collecting 
our  scattered  things,  and  putting  our  front  hair 
straight  by  the  mirror  in  the  ladies*  compart- 
ment. 

"Well,  Miss  Cheriton,"  I  said  warmly,  longing 
to  kiss  her  as  I  spoke,  "I  shall  never  forget  how 
kind  you  two  have  been  to  me.  I  do  wish  so 
much  I  hadn't  to  leave  you  like  this.  But  it's 
quite  inevitable.  I  c'  n't  see  really  how  I  could 
ever  endure " 

I  said  no  more,  for  just  at  that  moment,  as  the 
words  trembled  on  my  lips,  a  terrible  jar  thrilled 
suddenly  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
carriage.  Something  in  front  seemed  to  rush  into 
us  with  a  deep  thud.  There  was  a  crash,  a  fierce 
grating,  a  dull  hiss,  a  clatter.  Broken  glass  was 
flying  about.  The  very  earth  beneath  the  wheels 
seemed  to  give  way  under  us.  Next  instant,  all 
was  blank.     I  just  knew  I  was  lying,  bruised  and 


' 


MV  PLANS  ALTER. 


157 


Stunned  and  bleeding,  on  a  bare  dry  bank,  with 
my  limbs  aching  painfidly. 

I  guessed  what  it  all  meant.  A  collision,  no 
doubt.  But  I  lay  faint  and  ill,  a  id  knew  nothing 
for  the  moment  as  to  what  had  become  of  my 
fellow-passengers. 


I 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   STRANGE   RECOGNITION. 

GRADUALLY  I  was  aware  of  somebody  moist- 
ening my  temples.  A  soft  palm  held  my 
hand.  Elsie  was  leaning  over  me.  i  opened  my 
eyes  with  a  start. 

"Oh,  Elsie,"  I  cried,  "how  kind  of  you !" 

It  seemed  to  me  quite  natural  to  call  her  Elsie. 

Even  as  I  spoke,  somebody  else  raised  my  head 
and  poured  something  down  my  throat.  I  swal- 
lowed it  with  a  gulp.  Then  I  opened  iny  eyes 
again. 

"And  Jack,  too,**  I  murmured. 

It  seemed  as  if  he'd  been  "Jack"  to  me  for  years 
and  years  already. 

**She  knows  us !"  Elsie  cried,  clasping  her  hands. 
"She*s  much  better — much  better.  Quick,  Jack, 
more  brandy !  And  make  haste  there  —  a 
stretcher  !** 

There  was  a  noise   close  by.     Unseen  hands 

lifted  me  up,  and  Jack  laid  me  on  the  stretcher. 

Half  an  hour  at  least  must  have  elapsed,  I   felt 

sure,  since  the  first  shock  of  the  accident.     I  had 

been  unconscious  meanwhile.     The  actual  crash 

158 


A  STRANGE  RECOGNITION, 


159 


came  and  went  like  lightning.  And  my  memory 
of  all  else  was  blotted  out  for  the  moment. 

Next,  as  I  lay  still,  two  men  took  the  stretcher 
and  carried  me  off  at  a  slow  pace,  under  Jack's 
direction.  They  walked  single-file  along  the  line, 
and  turned  down  a  rough  road  that  led  off  near  a 
river.  I  didn't  aSk  where  they  were  going;  I  was 
too  weak  and  feeble.  At  last  they  came  to  a 
house,  a  small,  white,  woode:*  cottage,  very  colo- 
nial and  simple,  but  neat  and  pretty.  There  was 
a  garden  in  front,  full  of  old-fashioned  flowering 
shrubs;  and  a  veranda  ran  round  the  house, 
about  whose  posts  clambered  sweet  English 
creepers. 

They  carried  me  in,  and  laid  me  down  on  a  bed, 
in  a  sweet  little  room,  very  plain  but  dainty.  It 
was  paneled  with  polished  pitchpine,  and  roses 
peeped  in  at  the  open  window.  Everything  about 
the  cottage  bore  the  impress  of  native  good 
taste.  I  knew  it  was  Jack's  home.  It  was  ju§t 
such  a  room  as  I  should  have  expected  from 
Elsie. 

The  bed  on  which  they  placed  me  was  neat  and 
soft.  I  lay  there  dozing  with  pain.  Elsie  sat  by 
my  side,  her  own  arm  in  a  sling.  By  and  by,  an 
Irish  maid  came  in  and  undressed  me  carefully 
under  Elsie's  direction.  Then  Elsie  said  to  me, 
half  shrinking : 

"Now  you  must  see  the  doctor." 

"Not  Dr.  Ivor!"  I  cried,  waking  up  to  a  full 


i6o 


RECALLED    TO  LUE, 


sense  of  this  new-threatened  horror.  "Whatever 
I  do,  dear,  I  ivont  see  Dr.  Ivor!" 

Jack  had  come  in  while  slie  spoke,  and  was 
standing  by  the  bed,  I  saw  now.  The  servant  had 
gone  out.  He  lifted  my  arm,  and  held  my  wrist 
m  his  hand. 

"I'm  a  doctor  myself.  Miss  Callingham,**  he 
said  softly,  with  that  quiet,  reassuring  voice  of  his. 
**Don't  be  alarmed  at  that ;  nobody  but  myself 
and  Elsie  need  come  near  you  in  any  way." 

I  smiled  at  his  words,  well  pleased. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you're  a  doctor!"  I  Ci  jd,  much 
relieved  at  the  news;  "for  I'm  not  the  least  little 
bit  in  the  world  afraid  oi you.  I  don't  mind  your 
attending  me.  I  like  to  have  you  with  me."  For 
I  had  always  a  great  fancy  for  doctors,  somehow. 

"That's  well,"  he  said,  smiling  at  me,  such  a 
sweet,  sympathetic  smile,  as  he  felt  my  pulse  with 
his  finger.  "Confidence  is  the  first  great  requisite 
in  a  patient :  it's  half  the  battle.  You're  not  seri- 
ously hurt,  I  hope;  but  you're  very  much  shaken. 
Whether  you  like  it  or  not,  you'll  have  to  stop 
here  now  for  some  days,  at  least  till  you're  thor- 
oughly recovered." 

Tm  ashamed  to  write  it  down,  but  I  was  really 
pleased  to  hear  it.  Nothing  would  have  induced 
me  to  go  voluntarily  to  their  house  with  the  in- 
tention of  stopping  there — for  they  were  friends 
of  Dr.  Ivor's.  But  when  you're  carried  on  a 
stretcher  to  the  nearest  convenient  house,  you're 


\ 


A  STRAATGE  RRCOGNTTTO^. 


l6x 


not  responsible  for  your  own  actions.  And  they 
were  botli  so  nice  and  kind,  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
be  near  them.  So  I  \v<is  almost  thankful  for  that 
horrid  accident,  which  had  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
of  my  perplexity  as  to  a  house  to  lodge  in. 

It  was  a  fortnight  before  I  was  well  enough  to 
get  out  of  bed  and  lie  comfortably  on  the  sofa. 
All  that  time  Jack  and  Elsie  attended  me  with 
unsparing  devotion.  Elsie  had  a  little  bed  made 
up  in  my  room ;  and  Jack  came  to  see  me  two  or 
three  times  a  day,  and  sat  for  whole  hours  with 
me.  It  was  so  nice  he  was  a  doctor!  A  doctor, 
you  know,  isn't  a  man — in  some  ways.  And  it 
soothed  me  so  to  have  him  sitting  there  with  Elsie 
by  my  bedside. 

They  were  **Jack"  and  "Elsie**  to  me,  to  their 
faces,  before  three  days  were  out ;  and  I  was  plain 
**Una"  to  them:  it  sounded  so  sweet  and  sisterly. 
Elsie  slipped  it  out  the  second  morning  as  natur- 
ally as  could  be. 

**Una'd  like  a  cup  of  tea,  Jack;"  then,  as  red  as 
fire  all  at  once,  she  corrected  herself,  and  added, 
"I  mean,  Miss  Callingham." 

"Oh,  do  call  me  Una!"  I  cried;  "it's  so  much 

nicer  and  more  natural But  how  did  you 

come  to  know  my  name  was  Una  at  all?"  For 
she  slipped  it  out  as  glibly  as  if  she'd  always  called 
me  so. 

"Why,  everybody  knows  ihatT  Elsie  answered, 
amused.      "The    whole    world    speaks    of    you 


i6$ 


/RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


always  as  Una  Callingham.  You  forget  youVe  a 
celebrity.  Doctors  have  read  memoirs  about  you 
at  Medical  Congresses.  You've  been  discussed  in 
every  paper  in  Europe  and  America." 

I  paused  and  sighed.  This  was  very  humiliat- 
ing. It  was  unpleasant  to  rank  in  the  public  mind 
somewhere  between  Constance  *Kent  and  Laura 
Bridgman.     But  I  had  to  put  up  with  it. 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  with  a  deep  breath,  "if 
those  I  don't  care  for  call  me  so  behind  my 
back,  let  me  at  least  have  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  myself  called  so  by  those  I  love,  like 
you,  Elsie." 

She  leant  over  me  and  kissed  my  forehead  with 
a  burst  of  ^\:!!uine  delight. 

"Then  you  love  me,  Una !"  she  exclaimed. 

*How  can  I  help  it?"  I  answered.  "I  love  you 
dearly  already."  And  I  might  have  added  with 
truth,  "And  your  brother  also." 

For  Jack  was  really,  without  any  exception,  the 
most  lovable  man  I  ever  met  in  my  life — at  once 
so  strong  and  manly,  and  yet  so  womanly  and  so 
gentle.  Every  day  I  stopped  there,  I  liked  him 
better  and  better.  I  was  glad  when  he  came  into 
my  room,  and  sorry  when  he  went  away  again  to 
work  on  the  farm ;  for  he  worked  very  hard ;  his 
hand  was  all  horny  with  common  agricultural 
labor.  It  was  sad  to  think  of  such  a  man  having 
to  do  such  work.  And  yet  he  was  so  clever,  and 
such  a  capital  doctor.     I  wondered  he  hadn't  done 


\ 


/<  XTKA.VGF.  KF.COGV/riOy. 


i«J 


1 
{ 


well  and  stayird  in  En^daml.  Hut  Elsie  toUl  me 
he'd  had  j;rcat  disapp«)intnicnts,  aiul  failed  in  his 
profession  throuj^h  no  fault  of  his  own.  I  could 
never  understand  that ;  he  had  such  a  delightful 
manner.  Though  perhaps  I  was  prejudiced ;  for, 
in  point  of  fact,  I  began  to  feel  I  was  really  in 
love  with  Jack  Cheriton. 

And  Jack  was  in  love  with  mc  too.  This  was  a 
curious  result  of  my  voyage  to  Canada  in  search 
of  Dr.  Ivor!  Instead  of  hunting  up  the  criminal,, 
I  had  stopped  to  fall  in  love  with  one  of  his  friends 
and  neighbors.  And  I  found  it  .so  delicious,  I 
won't  pretend  to  deny  it.  I  was  absolutely  happy 
when  Jack  sat  by  my  bedside  and  held  my  hand 
in  his.  I  didn't  know  what  it  would  lead  to,  or 
whether  it  would  ever  lead  to  anything  at  all ;  but 
I  was  happy  meanwhile  just  to  love  and  be  loved 
by  him.  I  think  when  you're  really  in  love,  that's 
quite  enough.  Jack  never  proposed  to  me :  he 
never  asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  just  sat  by  mv 
bedside  and  held  my  hand;  and  once,  when  Elsie 
went  out  to  fetch  my  beef-tea,  he  stooped  hastil}- 
down  and  kissed  mc,  oh,  so  tenderly!  I  don't 
know  why,  but  I  wasn't  the  least  surprised.  It 
seemed  to  me  quite  natural  that  Jack  should  kiss 
me. 

So  I  went  idly  on  for  a  fortnight,  in  a  sort  of 
lazy  lotus-land,  never  thinking  of  the  future,  but 
as  happy  and  as  much  at  home  as  if  I'd  lived  all 
my  life  with  Jack  and  Elsie.     I  hated  even  to 


164 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE, 


^^ 


think  I  would  soon  be  well ;  for  then  I'd  have  to 
go  and  look  out  for  Courtenay  Ivor 

At  last  one  afternoon  I  was  sufficiently  strong 
to  be  lifted  out  of  bed,  and  dressed  in  a  morning 
robe,  and  laid  out  on  the  sofa  in  the  little  drawing- 
room.  It  looked  out  upon  the  veranda,  which 
was  high  above  the  ground  ;  and  Jack  came  in  and 
sat  with  me  alone,  without  Elsie.  My  heart 
throbbed  high  at  that :  I  liked  to  be  alone  for 
half-an-hour  with  Jack.  Perhaps  ....  But  who 
knows?  Well,  at  any  rate,  even  if  he  didn't,  it 
was  nice  to  iiave  the  chance  of  a  good  long  quiet 
chat  with  him.  I  loved  Elsie  dearly ;  but  at  a 
moment  like  this,  why  I  liked  to  have  Jack  all  to 
myself  without  even  Elsie. 

So  I  was  pleased  when  Jack  told  me  Elsie  was 
going  into  Palmyra  with  the  buggy  to  get  the 
English  letters.  Then  she'd  be  gone  a  good  long 
time !     Oh,  how  lovely  I     How  beautiful ! 

*Ts  there  anything  you'd  like  from  the  town?" 
he  asked,  as  Elsie  drove  past  the  window.  "Any- 
thing Elsie  could  get  for  you?  If  so,  please  say 
so. 

I  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Do  you  think,"  I  asked  at  last,  for  I  didn't 
want  to  be  troublesome,  "she  could  get  me  a 
lemon?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  Jack  answered ;  "there  she  goes 
in  the  buggy!  He  :,  wait  a  moment,  Una!  I'll 
run  after  her  to  the  gate  this  minute  and  tell  her." 


m 


J 


A  STRANGE  RECOGNITION. 


i6S 


He  sprang  lightly  on  to  the  parapet  of  the 
veranda.  Then,  with  one  hand  held  behind  him 
to  poise  himself,  palm  open  backward,  he  leapt 
with  a  bound  to  the  road,  and  darted  after  her 
hurriedly. 

My  heart  stood  still  within  me.  That  action 
revealed  him.  The  back,  the  open  hand,  the 
gesture,  the  bend — I  would  have  known  them  any- 
where. With  a  horrible  revulsion  I  recognized 
the  truth.  This  was  my  father's  murderer!  This 
was  Courtenay  Ivor ! 


i 


m 


I 


I 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MURDER    WILL    OUT. 

HE  was  gone  but  for  three  minutes.  Meanwhile, 
I  buried  my  face  in  my  burning  hands,  and 
cried  to  myself  in  unspeakable  misery. 

For,  horrible  as  it  sounds  to  say  so,  I  knew  per- 
fectly well  now  that  Jack  was  Dr.  Ivor:  yet,  in 
spite  of  that  knowledge,  I  loved  him  still.  He 
was  my  father's  murderer;  and  I  couldn't  help 
loving  him ! 

It  was  that  that  filled  up  the  cup  of  my  misery 
to  overflowing.  I  loved  the  man  well ;  and  I  must 
turn  to  denounce  him.  He  came  back,  flushed 
and  hot,  expecting  thanks  for  his  pains. 

"Well,  she'll  get  you  the  lemon,  Una,"  he  said, 
panting.     "I  overtook  her  by  the  big  tulip  tree." 

I  gazed  at  him  fixedly,  taking  my  hands  from 
my  face,  with  the  tears  still  wet  on  my  burning 
cheek. 

"You Ve  deceived  me  !'*  I  cried  sternly.  " J^^k, 
you've  given  me  a  false  name.  I  know  who  you 
are,  now.  You're  no  Jack  at  all.  You're  Courte- 
nay  Ivor!" 

He  drew  back,  quite  amazed.     Yet  he  didn't 

z66 


■ 


'i 


MURDER  WILL  OUT, 


167 


seem  thunderstruck.  Not  fear  but  surprise  was 
the  leading  note  on  his  features. 

"So  you've  found  out  that  at  last,  Una!"  he 
exclaimed,  staring  hard  at  me.  "Then  you  re- 
member me  after  all,  darling!  You  know  who  I 
am.  You  haven't  quiet  forgotten  me.  And  you 
recall  what  has  gone,  do  you?" 

I  rose  from  the  sofa,  ill  as  I  was,  in  my  horror. 

'^You  dare  to  speak  to  me  like  that,  sir!"  I 
cried.  "You,  whom  I've  tracked  out  to  your 
hiding-place  and  discovered.  You,  whom  I've 
come  across  the  ocean  to  hunt  down !  You,  whom 
I  mean  to  give  up  this  very  day  to  Justice!  Let 
me  go  from  your  house  at  once!  How  dare  you 
ever  bring  me  here?  How  dare  you  stand  un- 
abashed before  the  daughter  of  the  man  you  so 
cruelly  murdered?" 

He  drew  back  like  one  stung. 

"The  daughter  of  the  map  I  murdered !"  he  fal- 
tered out  slowly,  as  in  a  turmoil  of  astonishment. 
''The  man  /  murdered !  Oh,  Una,  is  it  possible 
you've  forgotten  so  much  and  yet  remember  me 
myself?  I  can't  believe  it,  darling.  Sit  down,  my 
child,  and  think.  Surely,  surely  the  rest  will  come 
back  to  you  gradually." 

His  calmness  unnerved  me.  What  could  he 
mean  by  these  words?  No  actor  on  earth  could 
dissemble  like  this.  His  whole  manner  was  ut- 
terly unlike  the  manner  of  a  man  just  detected  in 
a  terrible  crime.     He  seemed  rather  to  reproach 


«p 


i68 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


me,  indeed,  than  to  crouch ;  to  be  shocked  and 
indignant. 

"Explain  yourself,"  I  said  coldly,  in  a  very 
chilly  voice.  "Courtenay  Ivor,  I  give  you  three 
minutes  to  explain.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if 
you  can't  exonerate  yourself,  I  walk  out  of  this 
house  to  give  you  up,  as  I  ought,  to  the  arm  of 
Justice!" 

He  looked  at  me,  all  pity,  yet  inexpressibly  re- 
proachful, 

"Oh,  Una,"  he  cried,  claspin^^  his  hands — those 
small  white  hands  of  his — Aunt  Emma's  hands — 
the  murderer's  hands — how  had  I  never  before 
noticed  them? — "and  I,  who  hav^e  suffered  so 
much  for  you  !  I,  who  have  wrecked  my  whole 
life  for  you,  ungrudgingly,  willingly !  I,  who  have 
sacrificed  even  Elsie's  happiness  and  Elsie's  future 
for  you  !  This  is  too,  too  hard  !  Una,  Una,  spare 
me." 

A  strange  trembling  seized  me.  It  was  in  my 
heart  to  rush  forward  and  clasp  him  to  my  breast. 
Murderer  or  no  murderer,  his  look,  his  voice,  cut 
me  sharply  to  the  heart.  Words  trembled  on  the 
tip  of  my  tongue :  "Oh,  Jack,  I  love  you  !"  But 
with  a  violent  effort  I  repressed  them  sternly. 
This  horrible  revulsion  seemed  to  tear  me  in  two. 
I  loved  him  so  much.  Though  till  the  moment 
of  the  discovery  I  never  quite  realized  Jioiv  deeply 
I  loved  him. 

'Courtenay  Ivor,"  I  said  slowly,  steeling  myself 


I  I 


' 


I 


<«/*'. 


i 


MURDER   WILL  OUT. 


169 


once  more  for  a  hard  effort,  "I  knew  who  you 
were  at  once  when  I  saw  you  poise  yourself  on 
the  parapet.  Once  before  in  my  life  I  saw  you 
Hke  that  and  the  picture  it  produced  has  burned 
itself  into  the  very  fiber  and  marrow  of  my  being. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  can  never  get  rid  of  it.  It  was 
when  you  leapt  from  the  window  at  The  Grange 
at  Woodbury  after  murdering  my  father!" 

He  started  once  more. 

"Una,"  he  said  solemnly,  in  a  very  clear  voice, 
"there's  some  terrible  error  somewhere.  You're 
utterly  mistaken  about  what  took  place  that 
night.  But  oh,  great  heavens!  how  am  I  ever  to 
explain  the  misconception  to  you?  If  you  still 
think  thus,  it  would  be  cruel  to  undeceive  you. 
I  daren't  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  It  would  kill 
you  !     It  would  kill  you  !" 

I  drew  myself  up  like  a  pillar  of  ice. 

"Go  on,"  I  said,  in  a  hard  voice ;  for  I  saw  he 
had  something  to  say.  "Don't  mind  for  my  heart. 
Tell  me  the  truth.     I  can  stand  it." 

He  hesitated  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"I  can't!"  he  cried  huskily.  "Dear  Una.  don't 
ask  me!  Won't  you  trust  me,  without'  Won't 
you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  I  never  did 
it?" 

"No,  I  can't,"  I  answered  with  sullen  resolu- 
tion, though  my  eyes  belied  my  words.  "I  can't 
disbelieve  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses.  I  saw 
you  escape  that  night.     I  see  you  still.     I've  seen 


I 


lyo 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE, 


W     5 


you  for  years.  I  know  it  was  you,  and  you  only, 
who  did  it!" 

He  flung  himself  down  in  a  chair,  and  let  his 
arms  drop  listlessly. 

"Oh !  what  can  I  ever  do  to  disillusion  you?'*  he 
cried  in  despair.  "Oh!  what  can  I  ever  do? 
This  is  too,  too  terrible!" 

I  moved  toward  the  door. 

"I'm  going,"  I  said  with  a  gulp.  "You've  de- 
ceived me.  Jack.  YouVe  lied  to  me.  You  have 
given  me  feigned  names.  You  have  decoyed  me  to 
your  house  under  false  pretenses.  And  I  recognize 
you  now.  I  know  you  in  all  your  baseness.  You're 
my  father's  murderer!  Don't  hope  to  escape  by 
playing  on  my  feelings.  I'd  deserve  to  be  mur- 
dered myself,  if  I  could  act  like  that !  I'm  on  my 
v/ay  to  the  police  office,  to  give  you  in  custody  on 
the  charge  of  murdering  Vivian  Callingham  at 
Woodbury!" 

He  jumped  up  again,  all  anxiety. 

"Oh,  no,  you  mustn't  walk !"  he  cried,  laying  his 
hand  upon  my  arm.  "Give  me  up,  if  you  like; 
but  wait  till  the  buggy  comes  back,  and  Elsie'll 
drive  you  round  with  me.     You're  not  fit  to  go  a 

step  as  you  are  at  present Oh !  what  shall 

I  ever  do,  though.  You're  so  weak  and  ill. 
Elsie'll  never  allow  it." 

"Elsie'll  r/f^ver  allow  whatf  I  asked;  though  I 
felt  it  was  rather  more  grotesque  than  undignified 
and  inconsistent  thus  to  parley  and  make  terms 


! 


MURDER  WILL  OUT. 


171 


with  my  father's  murderer.  Though,  to  be  sure, 
it  was  Jack,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  refuse  him. 

He  kept  his  hand  on  my  arm  with  an  air  of  au- 
thority. 

"Una,  my  child,"  he  said,  thrusting  me  back — 
and  even  at  that  moment  of  supreme  horror,  a 
thrill  ran  all  through  my  body  at  his  touch  and  his 
words — "you  mustnt  go  out  of  this  house  as  you 
are  this  minute.  I  refuse  to  allow  it.  I'm  your 
doctor,  and  I  forbid  it.  You're  under  my  charge, 
and  I  won't  let  you  stir.  If  I  did,  I'd  be  re- 
sponsible." 

He  pushed  me  gently  into  a  chair. 

"I  gave  you  but  one  false  name,"  he  said 
slowly — "the  name  of  Cheriton.  To  be  sure,  I 
was  never  christened  John,  but  I'm  Jack  to  my 
intimates.  It  was  my  nickname  from  a  baby. 
Jack's  what  I've  always  been  called  at  home — 
Jack's  what,  in  the  dear  old  days  at  Torquay,  you 
always  called  me.  But  I  saw  if  I  let  you  know 
who  I  was  at  once,  there'd  be  no  chance  of  recall- 
ing the  past,  and  so  saving  you  from  yourself. 
To  save  you,  I  consented  to  that  one  mild  decep- 
tion. I  succeeded  in  bringing  you  here,  and  in 
keeping  you  here  till  Elsie  and  I  were  once  more 
what  we'd  always  been  to  you.  I  meant  to  tell 
you  all  in  the  end,  when  the  right  time  came. 
Now,  you've  forced  my  hand,  and  I  don't  know 
how  I  can  any  longer  refrain  from  telling  you." 

"Telling  me  whatf    I  said  icily.     "What  do 


172 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE, 


you  mean  by  your  words?  Why  all  these  dark 
hints?  If  you've  anything  to  say,  why  not  say  it 
like  a  man?" 

For  I  loved  him  so  much  that  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  I  half  hoped  there  might  still  be  some  ex- 
cuse, some  explanation. 

He  looked  at  me  solemnly.  Then  he  bent  back 
in  his  chair  and  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow.  1 
could  see  now  why  I  hadn't  recognized  that  deli- 
cate hand  before :  white  as  it  was  by  nature,  hard 
work  on  the  farm  had  long  bronzed  and  distorted 
it.  But  I  saw  also,  for  the  first  time,  that  the 
palm  was  scarred  with  cuts  and  rents — exactly 
like  Minnie  Moore's,  exactly  like  Aunt  Emma's. 

"Una,"  he  began  slowly,  in  a  very  puzzled  tone, 
**if  I  could  I'd  give  myself  up  and  be  tried,  and 
be  found  guilty  and  executed  for  your  sake, 
sooner  than  cause  you  any  further  distress,  or  ex- 
pose you  to  the  shock  of  any  more  disclosures. 
But  I  can't  do  that,  on  Elsie's  account.  Even  if 
I  decided  to  put  Elsie  to  that  shame  and  dis- 
grace— which  would  hardly  be  just,  which  would 
hardly  be  manly  of  me — Elsie  knows  all,  and 
Elsie'd  never  consent  to  it.  She'd  never  let  her 
brother  be  hanged  for  a  crime  of  which  (as  she 
knows)  he's  entirely  innocent.  And  she'd  tell  out 
all  in  full  court — every  fact,  every  detail — which 
would  be  worse  for  you  ten  thousand  times  in  the 
/end  than  learning  it  here  quietly." 

"Tell  me  all,"  I  said,  growing  stony,  yet  trem- 


MURDER    WILL   OUT. 


173 


bling  from  head  to  foot.  "Oh,  Jack,"--!  seized 
his  hand, — "I  don't  know  what  you  mean  !  lUit  I 
somehow  trust  you.  I  want  to  know  all.  I  can 
bear  anything— anything— better  than  this  sus- 
pense. You  must  tell  me !  You  must  explain  to 
me!" 

"I  will,"  he  said  slowly,  looking  hard  into  my 
eyes,  and  feeling  my  pulse  half  unconsciously  with 
his  finger  as  he  spoke.  "Una,  darling,  you  must 
make  up  your  mind  now  for  a  terrible  shock.  I 
won't  tell  you  in  words,  for  you'd  never  believe  it. 
I'll  sJunv  you  who  it  was  that  fired  the  shot  at  Mr. 
Callingham." 

He  moved  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
and  unlocking  drawer  after  drawer,  took  a  bundle 
of  photographs  from  the  inmost  secret  cabinet  of 
a  desk  in  the  corner. 

"There,  Una,"  he  said,  selecting  one  of  them 
and  holding  it  up  before  my  eyes.  "Prepare  your- 
self, darling.  That's  the  person  who  pulled  the 
trigger  that  night  in  the  library  I" 

I  looked  at  it  and  fell  back  with  a  deadly  shriek 
of  horror.  It  was  an  instantaneous  photograph. 
It  represented  a  scene  just  before  the  one  the  In- 
spec:or  gave  me.  And  there,  in  its  midst,  I  saw 
myself,  as  a  girl,  with  a  pistol  in  my  hand.  The 
muzzle  flashed  and  smoked.  I  knew  the  whole 
truth.  It  was  I  myself  who  held  the  pistol  and 
fired  at  my  father! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  REAL  MURDERER. 


\l\ 


FOR  some  seconds  I  sat  there,  leaning  back  in 
my  chair  and  gazing  close  at  that  incredible, 
that  accusing  document.  I  knew  it  couldn't  lie; 
I  knew  it  must  be  the  very  handiwork  of  unerr- 
ing Nature.  Then  slowly  a  recollection  began  to 
grow  up  in  my  mind.  I  knew  of  my  own  memory 
it  was  really  true.  I  remembered  it  so,  now,  as 
in  a  glass,  darkly.  I  remembered  having  stood, 
with  the  pistol  in  my  hand,  pointing  it  straight  at 
the  breast  of  the  man  with  the  long  white  beard 
whom  they  called  my  father.  A  new  mental  pic- 
ture rose  up  before  me  like  a  vision.  I  remem- 
bered it  all  as  something  that  once  really  occurred 
to  me. 

Yet  I  remembered  it,  as  I  had  long  remembered 
the  next  scene  in  the  series,  merely  as  so  much 
isolated  and  unrelated  fact,  without  connection  of 
any  sort  to  link  it  to  the  events  that  preceded  or 
followed  it.  It  was  I  who  shot  my  father!  I  re- 
alized that  now  with  a  horrid  gulp.  But  what  on 
earth  did  I  ever  shoot  him  for? 

And  I  had  hunted  down  Jack  for  the  crime  I 

»74 


TUE  REAL  MURDERER. 


'75 


had  committed  myself!     I  had  threatened  to  give 
him  up  for  my  own  dreadful  parricide! 

After  a  minute,  1  rose,  and  staggered  feebly  to 
the  door.  I  saw  the  path  of  duty  clear  as  daylight 
before  me. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Jack  faltered  out, 
watching  me  close,  with  anxious  eyes,  lest  I  should 
stumble  or  faint. 

And  I  answered  aloud,  in  a  hollow  voice: 

"To  the  police  station,  of  course — to  give  my- 
self into  custody  for  the  murder  of  my  father." 

When  I  thought  it  was  Jack,  though  I  loved 
him  better  than  I  loved  my  own  life,  I  would  have 
given  hLm  up  to  justice  as  a  sacred  duty.  Now  I 
knew  it  was  myself,  how  could  I  possibly  do  other- 
wise? How  could  I  love  my  own  life  better  than 
I  loved  dear  Jack's,  who  had  given  up  everything 
to  save  me  and  protect  me? 

With  a  wild  bound  of  horror,  Jack  sprang  upon 
me  at  once.  He  seized  me  bodily  in  his  arms. 
He  carried  me  back  into  the  room  with  irresisti- 
ble strength.  I  fought  against  him  in  vain.  He 
laid  me  on  the  sofa.  He  bent  over  me  like  a 
whirlwind  and  smothered  me  with  hot  kisses. 

"My  darling,"  he  cried,  "my  darling,  then  this 
shock  hasn't  killed  you!  It  hasn't  stunned  you 
Hke  the  last!  You're  still  your  own  dear  self! 
You've  still  strength  to  think  and  plan  exactly 
what  one  would  expect  from  you.  Oh!  Una, 
my  Una,  you  must  wait  and   hear  all.    When 


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176 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


youVc  learned  hoiv  it  happened,  you  won't  wish 
to  act  so  rashly." 

I  struggled  to  free  myself,  though  his  arms  were 
hard  and  close  like  a  strong  man's  around  me. 

"  Let  me  go.  Jack !"  I  cried  feebly,  trying  to  tear 
myself  from  his  grasp.  "I  love  you  better  than  I 
love  my  own  life.  If  I  would  have  %\\^x\  yoii  up, 
how  much  more  must  I  give  up  myself,  now  I 
know  it  was  I  who  really  did  it !" 

He  held  me  down  by  main  force.  He  pinned 
me  to  the  sofa.  I  suppose  it's  because  I'm  a  wo- 
man, and  weak,  and  all  that — but  I  liked  even 
then  to  feel  how  strong  and  how  big  he  was,  and 
how  feeble  I  was  myself,  like  a  child  in  his  arms. 
And  I  resisted  on  purpose,  just  to  feel  him  hold 
me.  Somehow,  I  couldn't  realize,  after  all,  that 
I  was  indeed  a  murderess.  It  didn't  seem  possi- 
ble.    I  couldn't  believe  it  was  in  me. 

"Jack,"  I  said  slowly,  giving  way  at  last,  and  let- 
ting him  hold  me  down  with  his  small  strong 
hands  and  slender  iron  wrist,  "tell  me,  if  you  will, 
how  I  came  to  do  it.  I'll  sit  here  quite  still,  if 
only  you'll  tell  me.     Am  I  really  a  murderess?" 

Jack  recoiled  like  one  shot. 

'*You  a  murderess,  my  spotless  Una!"  he  ex- 
claimed, all  aghast.  "If  any  one  else  on  earth  but 
you  had  just  asked  such  a  thing  in  my  presence, 
I'd  have  leapt  at  the  fellow's  throat,  and  held  him 
down  till  I  choked  him!" 

"But  I  did  it!"  I  cried  wildly.     "I  remember 


THE  REAL  MURDERER, 


»77 


now,  I  did  it.  It  all  comes  back  to  me  at  last.  I 
fired  at  him,  just  so.  I  aimed  the  loaded  pistol 
point-blank  at  his  heart.  I  can  hear  the  din  in  my 
ears.  I  can  see  the  flash  at  the  muzzle.  And  then 
I  flung  down  the  pistol — like  this — at  my  feet: 
and  darkness  came  on  and  I  forgot  everything. 
Why,  Dr.  Marten  knew  that  much !  I  remember, 
now,  he  told  me  he'd  formed  a  very  strong  impres- 
sion, from  the  nature  of  the  wound,  and  the  posi- 
tion of  the  various  objects  on  the  floor  of  the 
room,  who  it  was  that  did  it !  He  must  have  seen 
•  it  was  I  who  flung  down  the  pistol.'* 

Jack  gazed  at  me  in  suspense.  "He's  a  very 
good  friend  of  yours,  then,"  he  murmured,  "that 
Dr.  Marten.  For  he  never  said  a  word  of  all  that 
at  the  inquest." 

"But  I  must  give  myself  up!"  I  cried,  in  a  fever 
of  penitence  for  what  that  other  woman  who  once 
was  me  had  done.  "Oh,  Jack,  do  let  me!  It's 
hateful  to  know  I'm  a  murderess  and  to  go  un- 
punished. It's  hateful  to  draw  back  from  the 
fate  I'd  have  imposed  on  another.  I'd  like 
to  be  hanged  for  it.  I  want  to  be  hanged. 
It's  the  only  possible  way  to  appease  one's  con- 
science." 

And  yet,  though  I  said  it,  I  felt  all  the  time  it 
wasn't  really  I,  but  that  other  strange  girl  who 
once  lived  at  The  Grange  and  looked  exactly  like 
me.  I  remembered  it,  to  be  sure ;  but  it  was  in  my 
Other  State :   and,  so  far  as  my  moral  responsi- 


lyg 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


bility  was  concerned,  my  Other  State  and  I  were 
two  different  people. 

For  I  knew  in  my  heart  I  couldn't  commit  a 
murder. 

Jack  rose  without  a  word,  and  fetched  me  in 
some  brandy. 

"Drink  this,"  he  said  calmly,  in  his  authorita- 
tive medical  tone;  "drink  this  before  you  say  an- 
other sentence." 

And,  obedient  to  his  order,  I  took  it  up  and 
drank  it. 

Then  he  sat  down  beside  me,  and  took  my  hand 
in  his,  and  with  very  gentle  words  began  to  reason 
and  argue  with  me. 

He  was  glad  I  had  struggled,  he  said,  because 
that  broke  the  first  force  of  the  terrible  shock  for 
me.  Action  was  always  good  for  one  in  any  great 
crisis.  It  gave  an  outlet  for  the  pent-up  emotions, 
too  suddenly  let  loose  with  explosive  force,  and 
kept  them  from  turning  inward  and  doing  serious 
harm,  as  mine  had  done  on  that  horrible  night  of 
the  accident.  He  called  it  always  the  accident,  I 
noticed,  and  never  the  murder.  That  gave  me 
fresh  hope.  Could  I  really  after  all  have  fired 
unintentionally?  But  no;  when  I  came  to  look 
inward, — to  look  backward  on  my  past  state, — I 
was  conscious  all  the  time  of  some  strong  and 
fierce  resentment  smoldering  deep  in  my  heart  at 
the  exact  moment  of  firing.  However  it  might 
have  happened,  I  was  angry  with  the  man  with 


THE  RE  AT.  MURDERER, 


179 


the  long  white  beard ;  I  fired  at  him  hastily,  it  is 
true,  but  with  malice  prepense  and  deliberate  in- 
tent to  wound  and  hurt  him. 

Jack  went  on,  however,  undeterred,  in  a  low  and 
quiet  voice,  soothing  my  hand  with  his  as  he  spoke, 
and  very  kind  and  gentle.  My  spirit  rebelled  at 
the  thought  that  I  could  ever  for  one  moment 
have  imagined  him  a  murderer.  I  said  so  in  one 
wild  burst.  Jack  held  my  hand,  and  still  reasoned 
with  me.  I  lik  a  man's  reasoning;  it's  so  calm 
and  impartial.  It  seems  to  overcome  one  by  its 
mere  display  of  strength.  If  I'd  changed  my  mind 
once,  Jack  said,  I  might  change  it  again,  when 
further  evidence  on  the  point  was  again  forthcom- 
ing. I  mustn't  give  myself  up  to  the  police  till  I 
understood  much  more.  If  I  did,  I  would  com- 
mit a  very  grave  mistake.  There  were  reasons 
that  had  led  to  the  firing  of  the  shot.  Very  grave 
reasons,  too.  Couldn't  I  restore  and  reconstruct 
them,  now  I  knew  the  last  stage  ^f  the  terrible 
history?  If  possible,  he  would  rather  I  should  ar- 
rive at  them  by  myself  than  that  he  should  tell  me. 

I  cast  my  mind  back  all  in  vain. 

"No,  Jack,"  I  said  trustfully.  "I  can't  remem- 
ber anything  one  bit  like  that.  I  can  remember 
forward  sometimes,  but  never  backward.  I  can 
remember  now  how  I  flung  down  the  pistol,  and 
how  the  servants  burst  in.  But  not  a  word,  not 
an  item,  of  what  went  before.  That's  all  a  pure 
blank  to  me." 


\ 


i8o 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


And  then  I  went  on  to  tell  him,  in  very  brief 
outline,  how  the  first  thing  I  could  recollect  in  all 
my  life  was  the  Australian  scene  with  the  big  blue- 
gum  trees;  and  how  that  had  been  recalled  to  me 
by  the  picture  at  Jane's;  and  how  one  scene  in 
that  way  had  gradually  suggested  another;  and 
how  I  could  often  think  ahead  from  a  given  fact, 
but  never  go  back  behind  it  and  discover  what  led 
up  to  it. 

Jack  drew  his  hand  over  his  chin  and  reflected 
silently. 

"That's  odd,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "Yet  very 
comprehensible.  I  might  almost  have  thought  of 
that  before :  might  have  arrived  at  it  on  general 
principles.  Psychologically  and  physiologically 
it's  exactly  what  one  would  have  expected  from 
the  nature  of  memory.  And  yet  it  never  occurred 
to  me.  Set  up  the  tr?in  of  thought  in  the  order 
in  which  it  originally  presented  itself  and  the  links 
may  readily  restore  themselves  in  successive  series. 
Try  to  trace  it  backward  in  the  inverse  order,  and 
the  process  is  very  much  more  difficult  and  in- 
volved. Well,  we'll  try  things  just  so  with  you, 
Una.  We'll  begin  by  reconstructing  your  first 
life  as  far  as  we  can  from  the  very  outset,  with 
the  aid  of  these  stray  hints  of  yours;  and  then 
we'll  see  whether  we  can  get  you  to  remember  all 
your  past  up  to  the  day  of  the  accident  more 
easily." 

I  gazed  up  at  him  with  gratitude. 


THE  REAL  lifURDERER, 


iSl 


"Oh,  Jack,**  I  said  trembling,  "  in  spite  of  the 
shock,  I  believe  I  can  do  it  now.  I  believe  I  can 
remember.  The  scales  are  falling  from  my  eyes. 
I'm  becoming  myself  again.  What  you've  said 
and  what  you've  shown  me  seems  to  have  broken 
down  a  veil.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  reconstruct  all 
now,  when  once  the  key's  suggested  to  me." 

He  smiled  at  me  encouragingly.  Oh,  how 
could  I  ever  have  doubted  him? 

"That's  right,  darling,"  he  answered.  "I  should 
have  expected  as  much,  indeed.  For  now  for  the 
very  first  time  since  the  accident  you've  got  really 
at  the  other  side  of  the  great  blank  in  your  mem- 
ory." 

I  felt  so  happy,  though  I  knew  I  was  a  murder- 
ess.  I  didn't  mind  now  whether  I  w  as  hanged  or 
not.  To  love  Jack  and  be  loved  by  him  was  quite 
enough  for  me.  When  he  called  me  "darling," 
I  was  in  the  seventh  heaven.  It  sounded  so 
familiar.  I  knew  he  must  have  called  me  so, 
often  and  often  before,  in  the  dim  dead  past  that 
was  just  beginning  to  recur  to  me. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE  STRANGER  FROM   THE  SEA. 


I 


I  HELD  his  hand  tight.  It  was  so  pleasant  to 
know  I  could  love  him  now  with  a  clear  con- 
science, even  if  I  had  to  give  myself  up  to  the 
police  to-morrow.  And  indeed,  being  a  woman,  I 
didn't  really  much  care  whether  they  took  me  or 
not,  if  only  I  could  love  Jack,  and  know  Jack 
loved  me. 

"You  must  tell  me  everything — this  minute — 
Jack,"  I  said,  clinging  to  him  like  a  child.  "I 
can't  bear  this  suspense.  Begin  telling  me  at 
once.  You'll  do  me  more  harm  than  good  if  you 
keep  me  waiting  any  longer." 

Jack  took  instinctively  a  medical  view  of  the 
situation. 

"So  I  think,  my  child,"  he  said,  looking  lov- 
ingly at  me.  "Your  nerves  are  on  the  rack,  and 
will  be  the  better  for  unstringing.  Oh,  Una,  it's 
such  a  comfort  that  yon  know  at  last  who  I  am ! 
It's  such  a  comfort  that  I'm  able  to  talk  to  you 
to-day  just  as  we  two  used  to  talk  four  years  ago 
in  Devonshire !" 

Did   I  love  you   then,   Jack?"  I  whispered, 

zSa 


<( 


THE  STRAKGEfi  FROM  THE  SEA. 


'83 


nestling  still  closer  to  him,  in  spite  of  my  horror. 
Or  rather,  my  very  horror  made  me  feel  more 
acutely  than  ever  the  need  for  protection.  I  was 
no  longer  alone  in  the  world.  I  had  a  man  to 
support  me. 

"You  told  me  so,  darling,**  he  answered,  smooth- 
ing my  hair  with  his  hand.  "Have  you  forgotten 
all  about  it?  Doesn't  even  that  come  back? 
Can't  you  remember  it  now,  when  I've  told  you 
who  I  am  and  how  it  all  happened  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"All  cloudy  still,"  I  replied  vaguely.  "Some 
dim  sense  of  familiarity,  perhaps, — as  when  people 
say  they  have  a  feeling  of  having  lived  all  this 
over  somewhere  else  before, — but  nothing  more 
certain,  nothing  more  definite." 

"Then  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning/*  Jack 
answered,  bracing  himself  for  his  hard  task,  "and 
reconstruct  your  whole  life  for  you,  as  far  as  I 
know  it,  from  your  very  childhood.  I'm  par- 
ticularly anxious  you  should  not  merely  be  told 
what  took  place,  but  should  remember  the  past. 
There  are  gaps  in  my  own  knowledge  I  want  you 
to  eke  out.  There  are  places  I  want  you  to  help 
me  myself  over.  And  besides,  it'll  be  more  satis- 
factory to  yourself  to  remember  than  to  be  told  it." 

I  leaned  back,  almost  exhausted.  Incredible  as 
it  may  seem  to  you,  in  spite  of  that  awful  photo- 
graph, I  couldn't  really  believe  even  so  I  had 
killed  my  father.     And  yet  I  knew  very  well  now 


184 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE, 


that  Jack,  at  least,  hadn't  done  it.  That  was 
almost  enough.  But  not  quite.  My  head  swam 
round  in  terror.  I  waited  and  longed  for  Jack  to 
explain  the  whole  thing  to  me. 

"You  remember,**  he  said,  watching  me  closely, 
"that  when  you  lived  as  a  very  little  girl  in  Aus- 
tralia you  had  a  papa  who  seems  different  to  you 
still  from  the  papa  in  your  later  childish  mem- 
ones? 

"I  remember  it  very  well,"  I  replied.  "It 
came  back  to  me  on  the  Saruiaiian,  I  think  of 
him  always  now  as  the  papa  in  the  loose  white 
linen  coat.  The  more  I  dwell  on  him,  the  more 
does  he  come  out  to  i  is  a  different  man  from 
the  other  one — the  fatner  ....  I  shot  at  The 
Grange,  at  Woodbury.  The  father  that  lives  with 
me  in  that  ineffaceable  Picture." 

"He  was  a  different  man,'*  Jack  answered,  with 
a  sudden  burst,  as  if  he  knew  all  my  story. 
"Una,  I  may  as  well  relieve  your  mind  all  at  once 
on  that  formidable  point.  You  shot  that  man" — 
he  pointed  to  the  white-bearded  person  in  the 
photograph, — "but  it  was  not  parricide;  it  was 
not  even  murder.  It  was  under  grave  provoca- 
tion ....  in  more  than  self-defense  ....  and 
he  was  not  your  father." 

"Not  my  father!"  I  cried,  clasping  my  hands 
and  leaning  forward  in  my  profound  suspense. 
"But  I  killed  him  all  the  same!  Oh,  Jack,  how 
terrible !" 


THE  SJA-AXCEK  EKOM  THE  SEA. 


>8S 


"You  must  quiet  yourself,  my  chilJ,"  he  said, 
still  soothing  mc  automatically.  "I  want  your 
aid  in  this  matter.  You  must  listen  to  me  calmly, 
and  bring  your  mind  to  bear  on  all  I  say  to  you." 

Then  he  began  with  a  regular  history  of  my 
early  life,  which  came  back  to  me  as  fast  as  he 
spoke,  scene  by  scene  and  year  by  year,  in  long 
and  familiar  succession.  I  remembered  every- 
thing, sometimes  only  when  he  suggested  it ;  but 
sometimes  also,  before  he  said  the  words,  my 
memory  outran  his  tongue,  and  I  put  in  a  recol- 
lection or  two  with  my  own  tongue  as  they 
recurred  to  me  under  the  stimulus  of  this  new 
birth  of  my  dead  nature.  I  recalled  my  early 
days  in  the  far  bush  in  Australia;  my  journey 
home  to  England  on  the  big  steamer  with 
mamma;  the  way  we  traveled  about  for  years 
from  place  to  place  on  the  Continent.  I  remem- 
bered how  I  had  been  strictly  enjoined,  too, 
never  to  speak  of  baby ;  and  how  my  father  used 
to  watch  my  mother  just  as  closely  as  he  watched 
me,  always  afraid,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  she  should 
make  some  verbal  slip  or  let  out  some  great  secret 
in  an  unguarded  moment.  He  seemed  relieved, 
I  recollected  now,  when  my  poor  mother  died; 
he  grew  less  strict  with  me  then,  but  as  far  as  I 
could  judge,  though  he  was  careful  of  my  health, 
he  never  really  loved  me. 

Then  Jack  reminded  me  further  of  other  scenes 
that  came  much  later  in  my  forgotten  life.     He 


iS6 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


reminded  me  of  my  trip  to  Torquay,  where  I  first 
met  him ;  and  all  at  once  the  whole  history  of  my 
old  visits  to  the  Moores  came  back  like  a  flood  to 
me.  The  memory  seemed  to  inundate  and  over- 
whelm my  brain.  They  were  the  happiest  time 
of  all  life,  those  delightful  visits,  when  I  met  Jack 
and  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  half  confided  my 
love  to  my  Cousin  Minnie.  Strange  to  say, 
though  at  Torquay  itself  I'd  forgotten  it  al!,  in 
that  little  Canadian  house,  with  Jack  by  my  side 
to  recall  it,  it  rushed  like  a  wave  upon  me.  I'd 
fallen  in  love  with  Jack  without  my  father's 
knowledge  or  consent ;  and  I  knew  very  well  my 
father  would  never  allow  me  to  marry  him.  He 
had  ideas  of  his  own,  my  father,  about  the  sort  of 
person  I  ought  to  marry;  and  I  half  suspected  in 
my  heart  of  hearts  he  meant  if  possible  always  to 
keep  me  at  home  single  to  take  care  of  him  and 
look  after  him.  I  didn't  know,  as  yet,  he  had 
sufficient  reasons  of  his  own  for  desiring  me  to 
remain  forever  unmarried. 

I  remembered,  too,  that  I  never  really  loved 
my  father.  His  nature  was  hard,  cold,  reserved, 
unsympathetic.  I  only  feared  and  obeyed  him. 
At  times,  my  own  strong  character  came  out,  I 
remembered,  and  I  defied  him  to  his  face,  defied 
him  openly.  Then  there  were  scenes  in  the 
house,  dreadful  scenes,  too  hateful  to  dwell  upon ; 
and  the  servants  came  up  to  my  room  at  the  end 
and  comforted  me, 


THE  STRA.^GER  FROM  THE  SEA. 


187 


So,  step  by  step,  Jack  reminded  me  of  every- 
thing in  my  own  past  life,  up  to  the  very  night  of 
the  nuircier,  with  whicli  my  Second  State  dated. 
I'd  come  back  from  Torquay  a  week  or  two  be- 
fore, very  full  indeed  of  Jack,  and  determined,  at 
all  costs,  sooner  or  later,  to  marry  him.  But 
though  I  had  kept  all  quiet,  papa  had  suspected 
my  liking  on  the  day  of  the  Berry  Pomeroy  ath- 
letics, and  had  forbidden  me  to  see  Jack,  or  to 
write  to  him,  or  to  have  anything  further  to  say 
to  him.  He  was  determined,  he  told  me,  who- 
ever I  married,  I  shouldn't  at  least  marry  a  beg- 
garly doctor.  All  that  I  remembered ;  and  also, 
how,  in  spite  of  the  prohibition,  I  wrote  letters  to 
Jack,  but  could  receive  none  in  return — lest  my 
father  should  see  them. 

And  still,  the  central  mystery  of  the  murder 
was  no  nearer  solution.  I  held  my  breath  in  ter- 
ror. Had  I  really  any  sort  of  justification  in  kill- 
ing him? 

Dimly  and  instinctively,,  as  Jack  went  on,  a 
faint  sense  of  resentment  and  righteous  indigna- 
tion against  the  man  with  the  white  beard  rose 
up  vaguely  in  my  mind  by  slow  degrees.  I  knew 
1  had  been  angry  with  him,  I  knew  I  had  defied 
him,  but  how  or  why  as  yet  I  knew  not. 

Then  Jack  suddenly  paused,  and  began  in  a 
different  voice  a  new  part  of  his  tale.  It  was 
nothing  I  remembered  or  could  possibly  remem- 
ber, he  said ;  but  it  was  necessary  to  the  compre- 


iS8 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


hension  of  what  came  after,  and  would  help  me 
to  recall  it.  About  a  week  after  I  left  Torquay, 
it  seemed,  Jack  was  in  his  consulting-room  at 
Babbicombc  one  day,  having  just  returned  from  a 
very  long  bicycle  ride, — for  he  was  a  first-rate 
cyclist, — when  the  servant  announced  a  new  pa- 
tient, and  a  very  worn-out  old  man  came  in  to 
visit  him.  The  man  had  a  ragged  gray  beard  and 
scanty  white  hair;  he  was  clad  in  poor  clothes, 
and  had  tramped  on  foot  all  the  way  from  Lon- 
don to  Babbicombe,  where  Jack  used  to  practice. 
But  Jack  saw  at  once  under  this  rough  exterior 
he  had  the  voice  and  address  of  a  cultivated  gen- 
tleman, though  he  was  so  broken  down  by  want 
and  long  suffering  and  exposure  and  illness  that 
he  looked  like  a  beggar  just  let  loose  from  tlie 
workhouse. 

I  held  my  breath  as  Jack  showed  me  the  poor 
old  man's  photograph.  It  was  a  portrait  taken 
after  death — for  Jack  attended  him  to  the  end 
through  a  fatal  illness ;  and  it  showed  a  face  thin 
and  worn,  and  much  lined  by  unspeakable  hard- 
ships. But  I  burst  out  crying  at  once  the  very 
moment  I  looked  at  it.  For  a  second  or  two,  I 
couldn't  say  why;  I  suppose  it  was  instinct. 
Blood  is  thicker  than  water,  they  tell  us;  and  I 
have  the  intuition  of  kindred  very  strong  in  me,  I 
believe.  But  at  any  rate,  I  cried  silently,  with 
big  hot  tears,  while  I  looked  at  that  dead  face  of 
silent  suffering,  as  I  never  had  cried  over  the  pho- 


THE  STRANGER  EA'OM  THE  SEA. 


189 


tograph  of  the  rcspcctablc-looking  man  who  hiy 
dead  on  the  floor  of  the  Hbrary,  and  whom  I  was 
always  taught   to   consider  my  father.     Then    it 

came  back  to  me.  why I  gazed  at  it  and 

grew  faint.  I  clutched  Jack's  arm  for  support. 
I  knew  what  it  meant  now.  The  poor  worn  old 
man  who  lay  dead  on  the  bed,  with  that  look  of 
mute  agony  on  his  features,  was  my  first  papa; 
the  papa  in  the  loose  white  linen  coat ;  the  one  I 
remembered  with  childlike  love  and  trustfulness 
in  my  earliest  babyish  Australian  recollections! 

I  couldn't  mistake  the  face.  It  was  burnt  into 
my  brain  now.  This  was  he,  though  much  older 
and  sadder,  and  more  scarred  and  lined  by  age 
and  weather.  It  was  my  very  first  papa.  My 
own  papa.  I  cried  silently  still.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  look  at  it.  Then  the  real  truth  broke  upon  me 
once  more.  This,  and  this  alone,  was  in  very 
deed  my  one  real  father! 

I  seized  the  faded  photograph  and  pressed  it  to 
my  lips. 

"Oh,  I  know  him!"  I  cried  wildly.  "It's  my 
father !     My  father !" 

Some  minuter  passed  before  Jack  could  go  on 
with  his  story.  This  rush  of  emotions  was  too 
much  for  me  for  a  while.  I  could  hardly  hear 
him  or  attend  to  him,  so  deeply  did   it  stir  me. 

At  last  I  calmed  down,  still  holding  that  pa- 
thetic photograph  on  the  table  before  me. 

"Tell  me  all  about  him,"  I  murmured,  sobbing. 


i 


190 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


"For,  Jack,  I  remember  now,  he  was  so  good  and 
kind,  and  I  loved  him—I  loved  him." 

Jack  went  on  with  his  story,  trying  to  soothe 
me  and  reassure  mc.  The  old  man  introduced 
himself  by  very  cautious  degrees  as  a  person  in 
want,  not  so  much  of  money,  though  of  that  to 
be  sure  he  had  none,  as  of  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy in  a  very  great  sorrow.  He  was  a  ship- 
wrecked mariner,  in  a  sense ;  shipwrecked  on  the 
sea  of  Life  and  on  the  open  Pacific  as  well.  But 
once  he  had  been  a  clergyman,  and  a  man  of  edu- 
cation, position,  reputation,  fortune. 

Gradually  as  he  went  on  Jack  began  to  grasp 
at  the  truth  of  this  curious  tale.  The  worn  and 
battered  stranger  had  but  lately  landed  in  London 
from  a  sailing  vessel  which  had  brought  him  over 
from  a  remote  Pacific  islet ;  not  a  tropical  islet  of 
the  kind  with  whose  palms  and  parrots  we  are  all 
so  familiar,  but  a  cold  and  snowy  rock,  away  off  far 
south,  among  the  frosts  and  icebergs,  near  the 
Antarctic  continent.  There  for  twenty  long  years 
that  unhappy  man  had  lived  by  himself  a  solitary 
life. 

I  started  at  the  sound. 

"For  twenty  years!"  I  exclaimed.  Oh,  Jack, 
you  must  be  wrong;  for  how  could  that  be?  I 
was  only  eighteen  when  all  this  happened.  How 
could  my  real  father  have  been  twenty  years 
away  from  me,  when  I  was  only  eighteen,  and  \ 
remember  him  so  perfectly?" 


THE  STRANGER  FROM  THE  SEA. 


191 


Jack  looked  at  me  and  shook  his  head. 

"YouVe  much  to  learn  yet,  Una,"  he  answered. 
"The  story's  a  long  one.  You  were  not  eigh- 
teen but  twenty-two  at  the  time.  YouVe  been 
deliberately  misled  as  to  your  own  age  all  along. 
You  developed  late,  and  were  always  short  for 
your  real  years,  not  tall  and  precocious  as  we  all 
of  us  imagined.  But  you  were  four  years  older 
than  Mr.  Callingham  pretended.  You're  twenty- 
six  nov/,  not  twenty-two  as  you  think.  Wait,  and 
in  time  you'll  hear  all  about  it." 

He  went  on  with  his  story.  I  listened,  spell- 
bound. The  unhappy  man  explained  to  Jack 
how  he  had  been  wrecked  on  the  voyage,  and 
escaped  on  a  raft  with  one  other  passenger;  how 
they  had  drifted  far  south,  before  waves  and  cur- 
rents, till  they  were  cast  at  last  on  this  wretched 
island ;  how  they  remained  there  for  a  month  or 
two,  picking  up  a  precarious  living  on  roots  and 
berries  and  eggs  of  sea-birds ;  and  how  at  last,  one 
day,  he  had  come  back  from  hunting  limpets  and 
sea-urchins  on  the  shore  of  a  lonely  bay — to  find, 
to  his  amazement,  his  companion  gone,  and  him- 
self left  alone  on  that  desolate  island.  His  fellow- 
castaway,  he  knew  then,  had  deceived  and  de- 
serted him ! 

There  was  no  room,  indeed,  to  doubt  the 
treachery  of  the  wretched  being  vho  had  so 
basely  treated  him.  As  he  looked,  a  ship  under 
full  sail  stood  away  to  northward.     In  vain  the 


\\ 


M 


192 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


unhappy  man  made  wild  signals  from  the  shore 
with  his  tattered  garments.  No  notice  v/as  taken 
of  them.  His  companion  must  deliberately  have 
suppressed  the  other's  existence,  and  pretended 
to  be  alone  by  himself  on  the  island. 

*'And  his  name?"  Jack  asked  of  the  poor  old 
man,  horrified. 

The  stranger  answered  without  a  moment's 
pause : 

"His  name,  if  you  want  it,  was  Vivian  Calling- 
ham." 

"And  yours?"  Jack  continued,  as  soon  as  he 
could  recover  from  his  first  shock  of  horror. 

"And  mine,"  the  poor  castaway  replied,  "is 
Richard  Wharton." 

As  Jack  told  me  those  words,  another  strange 
thrill  ran  through  me. 

"Richard  Wharton  was  the  name  of  mamma's 
first  husband.  Then  I'm  not  a  Callingham  at 
all!"  I  cried,  unable  to  take  it  all  in  at  first 
in  its  full  complexity.  "I'm  really  a  Whar- 
ton !" 

Jack  nodded  his  head  in  assent. 

"Yes,  you're  really  a  Wharton,"  he  said. 
"You're  the  baby  that  died,  as  we  all  were  told. 
Your  true  Christian  name's  Mary.  But,  Una,  you 
were  always  Una  to  all  of  us  in  England ;  and 
though  the  real  Una  Callingham  died  when  you 
were  a  little  girl  of  three  or  four  years  old,  you'll 
be  Una  always  now  to  Elsie  and  me.    We  can't 


THE  STRANGER  FROM  THE  SEA. 


»93 


think  of  you  as  other  than  we've  always  called 
you." 

Then  he  went  on  to  explain  to  me  how  the 
stranger  had  landed  in  London,  alone  and  friend- 
less, twenty  years  later,  from  a  passing  Australian 
merchant  vessel  which  had  picked  him  up  on  the 
island.  All  those  years  he  had  waited,  and  fed 
himself  on  eggs  of  penguins.  He  landed  by  him- 
self, the  crew  having  given  him  a  suit  of  old 
clothes,  and  subscribed  to  find  him  in  immediate 
necessaries.  He  began  to  inquire  cautiously  in 
London  about  his  wife  and  family.  At  first,  he 
could  learn  little  or  nothing;  for  nobody  remem- 
bered him,  and  he  feared  to  ask  too  openly,  a  sort 
of  Enoch  Arden  terror  restraining  him  from  pro- 
claiming his  personality  till  he  knew  exactly  what 
had  happened  in  his  long  absence.  But  bit  by 
bit,  he  found  out  at  last  that  his  wife  had  married 
again,  and  was  now  long  dead ;  and  that  the  man 
she  had  married  was  Vivian  Callingham,  his  own 
treacherous  companion  on  the  Crozet  Islands. 
As  sc .  :  as  he  learned  that,  the  full  depth  of  the 
man's  guilt  burst  upon  him  like  a  thunderbolt. 
Richard  Wharton  understood  now  why  Vivian 
Callingham  had  left  him  alone  on  those  desert 
rocks,  and  sailed  away  in  the  ship  without  telling 
the  captain  of  his  fellow-castaway's  plight.  He 
saw  the  whole  vile  plot  the  man  had  concocted  at 
once,  and  the  steps  he  had  taken  to  carry  it  into 
execution. 


194 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


Vivian  Callingham,  whom  I  falsely  thought  my 
father,  had  gone  back  to  Australia  with  pretended 
news  of  Richard  Wharton's  death.  He  had 
sought  my  widowed  mother  in  her  own  home  up 
country,  and  told  her  a  lying  tale  of  his  devotion 
to  her  husband  in  his  dying  moments  on  that 
remote  ocean  speck  in  the  far  Southern  Pacific. 
By  this  story  he  ingratiated  himself.  He  knew 
she  was  rich ;  he  knew  she  was  worth  marrying ; 
and  to  marry  her,  he  had  left  my  own  real  father, 
Richard  Wharton,  to  starve  and  languish  for 
twenty  years  among  rocks  and  sea-fowl  on  an 
lonely  island ! 

My  blood  ran  cold  at  such  a  tale  of  deadly 
treachery!  I  remembered  now  to  have  heard 
some  small  part  of  it  before.  But  much  of  it,  as 
Jack  told  it  to  me,  was  quite  new  and  unex- 
pected. No  wonder  I  had  turned  in  horror  that 
night  from  the  man  I  long  believed  to  be  my  own 
father,  when  I  learned  by  what  vile  and  cruelly 
treacherous  means  he  had  succeeded  in  imposing 
his  supposed  relationship  upon  me !  But  still,  all 
this  brought  me  no  nearer  the  real  question  of 
questions — why  did  I  shoot  him? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


i 


THE  PLOT   UNRAVELS   ITSELF. 

AS  Jack  went  on  unfolding  that  strange  tale  of 
fraud  and  heartless  wrong,  my  interest  every 
moment  grew  more  and  more  absorbing.  But  I 
can't  recall  it  now  exactly  as  Jack  told  me  it.  I 
can  only  give  you  the  substance  of  that  terrible 

story. 

When  Richard  Wharton  first  learned  of  his 
wife's  second  marriage  during  his  own  Hfetime  to 
that  wicked  wretch  who  had  ousted  and  sup- 
planted him,  he  believed  also,  on  the  strength  of 
Vivian  Callingham's  pretenses,  that  his  own 
daughter  had  died  in  her  babyhood  in  Australia. 
He  fancied,  therefore,  that  no  person  of  his  kin 
remained  alive  at  all,  and  that  he  might  proceed 
to  denounce  and  punish  Vivian  Callingham. 
With  that  object  in  view,  he  tramped  down  all  the 
way  from  London  to  Torquay,  to  make  himself 
known  to  his  wife's  relations,  the  Moores,  and  to 
their  cousin,  Courtenay  Ivor  of  Babbicombe~my 
Jack,  as  I  called  him.  For  various  reasons  of  his 
own,  he  called  first  on  Jack,  and  proceeded  to 
detail  to  him  this  terrible  family  story. 

195 


i 


nj6 


kliCALLEl)    '10  IJFE, 


At  first  hearing,  Jack  could  hardly  believe  such 
a  tale  was  true  of  his  Una's  father,  as  he  still 
thought  Vivian  Callingham.  But  a  strange 
chance  happened  to  reveal  a  still  further  compli- 
cation. It  came  out  in  this  way.  I  had  given 
Jack  a  recent  photograph  of  myself  in  fancy  dress, 
which  hung  up  over  his  mantelpiece.  As  the 
weather-worn  visitor's  eye  fell  on  the  picture,  he 
started  and  grew  pale. 

"Why,  that's  her!"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden 
gasp.     "That's  my  daughter — Mary  Wharton!" 

Well,  naturally  enough  Jack  thought,  to  begin 
with,  this  was  a  mere  mistake  on  his  strange  vis- 
itor's part. 

"That's  her  half-sister,"  he  said,  "Una  Calling- 
ham — your  wife's  child  by  her  second  marriage. 
She  may  be  like  her,  no  doubt,  as  half-sisters 
often  are.  But  Mary  Wharton,  I  know,  died  some 
eighteen  years  ago  or  so,  when  Una  was  quite  a 
baby,  I  believe.  I've  heard  all  about  it,  because, 
don't  you  see,  I'm  engaged  to  Una." 

The  poor  wreck  of  a  clergyman,  however,  shook 
his  head  with  profound  conviction.  He  knew 
better  than  that. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said  decisively;  "that's  mychild, 
Mary  Wharton.  Even  after  all  these  years,  I 
couldn't  possibly  be  mistaken.  Blood  is  thicker 
than  water;  I'd  know  her  among  ten  thousand. 
She'd  be  just  that  age  now,  too.  I  see  the  crea- 
ture's vile  plot.     His  daughter  died  young,  and 


TttE  PLOT  UI^RAVEt.S  ITSELF, 


197 


he's  palmed  off  my  Mary  as  his  own  child,  to 
keep  her  money  in  his  hands.  But  never  mind 
the  money.  Thank  Heaven,  she's  alive !  That's 
her!     That's  my  Mary!" 

The  plot  seemed  too  diabolical  and  too  improb- 
able for  anybody  to  believe.  Jack  could  hardly 
think  it  possible  when  his  new  friend  told  him. 
But  the  stranger  persisted  so — it's  hard  for  me 
even  to  think  of  him  as  quite  really  my  father — 
that  Jack  at  last  brought  out  two  or  three  earlier 
photographs  I'd  given  him  some  time  before;  and 
his  visitor  recognized  them  at  once,  in  all  their 
stages,  as  his  own  daughter.  This  roused  Jack's 
curiosity.  He  determined  to  hunt  the  matter  up 
with  his  unknown  connection.  And  he  hunted  it 
up  thenceforward  with  deliberate  care  till  he 
proved  every  word  of  it. 

Meanwhile,  the  poor  broken-down  man,  worn 
out  with  his  long  tramp  and  his  terrible  emotions, 
fell  ill  almost  at  once,  in  Jack's  own  house,  and 
became  rapidly  so  feeble  that  Jack  dared  not  ques- 
tion him  further.  The  return  to  civilization  was 
more  fatal  than  his  long,  solitary  banishment.  At 
the  end  of  a  week  he  died,  leaving  on  Jack's  mind 
a  profound  conviction  that  all  he  had  said  was 
true,  and  that  I  was  really  Richard  Wharton's 
daughter  not  Vivian  Callingham's. 

"For  a  week  or  two  I  made  inquiries,  Una," 
Jack  said  to  me  as  we  sat  there,  "inquiries  which 
I  won't  detail  to  you  in  full  just  now,  but  which 


198 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


gradually  showed  mc  the  truth  of  the  poor  soul's 
belief.  What  you  yourself  told  me  just  now 
chimes  in  exactly  with  what  I  discovered  else- 
where by  inquiry  and  by  letters  from  Australia. 
The  baby  that  died  was  the  real  Una  Callingham. 
Shortly  after  its  death,  your  stepfather  and  your 
mother  left  the  colony.  All  your  real  father's 
money  had  been  bequeathed  to  his  child;  and 
your  mother's  also  was  settled  on  you.  Mr. 
Callingham  saw  that  if  your  mother  died,  and  you 
lived  and  married,  he  himself  would  be  deprived  of 
the  fortune  for  which  he  had  so  wickedly  plotted. 
So  he  made  up  another  plot  even  more  extraordi- 
nary and  more  diabolical  still  than  the  first.  He 
decided  to  pretend  it  was  Mary  Wharton  that 
died,  and  to  palm  you  off  on  the  world  as  his  own 
child,  Una  Callingham.  For  if  Mary  Wharton 
died,  the  property  at  once  became  absolutely  your 
mother's,  and  she  could  will  it  away  to  her  hus- 
band or  any  one  else  she  chose  to." 

"But  baby  was  so  much  younger  than  I !"  I 
cried,  going  back  on  my  recollections  once  more. 
"How  could  he  ever  manage  to  make  the  dates 
come  right  again?'*  * 

"Quite  true,'*  Jack  answered;  "the  baby  was 
younger  than  you.  But  your  stepfather — I've  no 
other  name  by  which  I  can  call  him — made  a  clear 
plan  to  set  that  straight.  He  concealed  from  the 
people  in  Australia  which  child  had  been  ill,  and 
he  entered  her  death  as  Mary  Wharton.     Then,  to 


THE  PLOT  UNRAVELS  ITSELF, 


199 


S 

V 


s 


cover  the  falsification,  he  loft  Melbourne  at  once, 
and  traveled  about  for  some  years  on  the  Conti- 
nent in  out-of-the-way  places  till  all  had  been  for- 
gotten. You  went  forth  upon  the  world  as  Una 
Callingham,  with  your  true  personality  as  Mary 
Wharton  all  obscured  even  in  your  own  memory. 
Fortunately  for  your  false  father's  plot,  you  were 
small  for  your  age,  and  developed  slowly :  he  gave 
out,  on  the  contrary,  that  you  were  big  for  your 
years  and  had  outgrown  yourself,  Australian-wise, 
both  in  wisdom  and  stature." 

"But  my  mother!"  I  exclaimed,  appalled. 
"How  could  she  ever  consent  to  such  a  wicked 
deception?" 

"Mr.  Callingham  had  your  mother  completely 
under  his  thumb,"  Jack  answered  with  prompti- 
tude. "She  couldn't  call  her  soul  her  own,  your 
poor  mother — so  I've  heard :  he  cajoled  her  and 
terrified  her  till  she  didn't  dare  to  oppose  him. 
Poor  shrinking  creature,  she  was  afraid  of  her  life 
to  do  anything  except  as  he  bid  her.  He  must 
have  persuaded  her  first  to  acquiesce  passively  in 
this  hateful  plot,  and  then  must  have  terrified  her 
afterward  into  full  compliance  by  threats  of  ex- 
posure." 

"He  was  a  very  unhappy  man  himself,"  I  put  in, 
casting  back.  "His  money  did  him  no  good.  I 
can  remember  now  how  gloomy  and  moody  he 
was  often  at  The  Grange." 

"Quite  true,"  Jack  replied.     "He  lived  in  per- 


\\\ 


300 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


pctiial  fear  of  your  real  father's  return,  or  of  some 
other  breakdown  to  his  complicated  system  of 
successive  deceptions.  He  never  had  a  happy 
minute  in  his  whole  life,  I  believe.  Blind  terrors 
surrounded  him.  He  was  afraid  of  everything', 
and  afraid  of  everybody.  Only  his  scientific  work 
seemed  ever  to  give  him  any  relief.  There,  he 
became  a  free  man.  He  threw  himself  into  that 
heart  and  soul,  on  purpose,  I  fancy,  because  it 
absorbed  him  while  he  was  at  it,  and  prevented 
him  for  the  time  being  from  thinking  of  his  posi- 
tion." 

"And  how  did  you  find  it  all  out?"  I  asked 
eagerly,  anxious  to  get  on  to  the  end. 

"Well,  that's  long  to  tell,"  Jack  replied.  "Too 
long  for  one  sitting.  I  won't  trouble  you  with  it 
now.  Discrepancies  in  facts  and  dates,  and  in- 
quiries among  servants  both  in  England  and  in 
Victoria,  first  put  me  upon  the  track.  But  I  said 
nothing,  at  the  time,  of  my  suspicions  to  any- 
one. I  waited  till  I  could  appeal  to  the  man's  own 
conscience  with  success,  as  I  hoped.  And  then, 
besides,  I  hardly  knew  how  to  act  for  the  best.  I 
wanted  to  marry  you  ;  and  therefore,  as  far  as  was 
consistent  with  justice  and  honor,  I  wished  to  spare 
your  supposed  father  a  complete  exposure." 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  the  police?"  I  asked. 

"Because  I  had  really  nothing  definite  in  any 
way  to  go  upon.  Realize  the  position  to  yourself, 
and  you'll  see  how  difficult  it  was  for  me.     Mr. 


THE  PLOT  r^VR.tVF.rS  ITSELF. 


201 


Callingham  suspected  I  was  paying  you  attentions. 
Clearly,  under  those  circiiinstaiices,  it  was  to  my 
obvious  interest  that  you  shouUI  ^;et  possession  of 
all  his  property.  Any  claims  I  might  make  for  you 
would,  therefore,  be  naturally  regarded  with  sus- 
|)icion.  The  shipwrecked  man  had  told  nobody 
but  myself.  I  hadn't  even  an  affidavit,  a  death- 
bed statement.  All  rested  upon  his  word,  and 
upon  mine  as  retailing  it.  He  was  dead,  and 
there  was  nothing  but  my  narrative  for  what  he 
told  me.  The  story  itself  was  too  improbable  to 
be  believed  by  the  police  on  such  dubious  evi- 
dence. I  didn't  even  care  to  try.  I  wanted  to 
make  your  stepfather  confess:  and  I  waited  for 
that  till  I  could  compel  confession." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


hi'- 


MY  MEMORY   RETURNS. 

AT  last  my  chance  came,"  Jack  went  on.  "I'd 
found  out  almost  everything;  not,  of  course, 
exactly  by  way  of  legal  proof,  but  to  my  own  en- 
tire satisfaction;  and  I  determined  to  lay  the  mat- 
ter definitely  at  once  before  Mr.  Callingham.  So 
I  took  a  holiday  for  a  fortnight,  to  go  bicycling 
in  the  Midlands  I  told  my  patients;  anl  I  fixed 
my  headquarters  at  Wrode,  which,  as  you  proba- 
bly remember,  is  twenty  miles  off  from  Woodbur)\ 

"It  was  important  for  my  scheme  I  should  catci: 
Mr.  Callingham  alone.  I  had  no  idea  of  entrap- 
ping him.  I  wanted  to  work  upon  his  conscience 
and  induce  him  to  confess.  My  object  was  rather 
to  move  him  to  remorse  and  restitution  than  to 
terrify  or  surprise  him. 

"So  on  the  day  of  the  accident— call  it  murder, 
if  you  will — I  rode  over  on  my  machine,  unan- 
nounced, to  The  Grange  to  see  him.  You  knew 
where  I  was  staying,  you  recollect " 

At  the  words,  a  burst  of  memory  came  suddenly 
over  me. 

''Oh,  yes!"  I  cried,  **I  remember.  It  was  at 
the  Wilsons',  at  Wrode.    I  wrote  over  there  to 

ao2 


AfV  MEMORY  RETURNS, 


ao3 


tell  you  we  were  going  to  dine  alone  at  six  that 
evening,  as  papa  had  got  his  electric  apparatus 
home  from  his  instrument-maker,  and  was  anxious 
to  try  his  experiments  early.  You'd  written  to 
me  privately — a  boy  brought  the  note — -that  you 
wanted  to  have  an  hour's  talk  alone  with  papa.  I 
thought  it  was  about  me^  and  I  was,  oh,  ever  so 
nervous!" 

For  it  all  came  back  to  me  now,  as  clear  as 
yesterday. 

Jack  looked  at  me  hard. 

"I'm  glad  you  remember  that,  dear,**  he  said. 
"Now,  Una,  do  try  to  remember  all  you  can  as  I 

go  along  with  my  story Well,  I  rode  over 

alone,  never  telling  anybody  at  Wrode  where  I 
was  going  nor  giving  your  stepfather  any  reason 
of  any  sort  to  expect  me.  I  trusted  entirely  to 
finding  him  busy  with  his  new  invention.  When 
I  reached  The  Grange,  1  came  up  the  drive  unper- 
ceived,  and,  looking  in  at  the  library  window,  saw 
your  father  alone  there.  He  was  pottering  over 
his  chemicals.  That  gave  me  the  clew.  I  left  my 
bicycle  under  the  window,  tilted  up  against  the 
wall,  and  walked  in  without  ringing,  going  straight 
to  the  library.  Nobody  saw  me  come,  nobody 
saw  me  return,  except  one  old  lady  on  the  road, 
who  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it  by  the 
time  of  the  inquest." 

I  nodded  and  gave  a  start.  I  knew  that  must 
have  been  Aunt  Emma, 


h  '\ 


204 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


V. 


(11  ' 


[1.1  • 


"Except  yourself,  Una,  no  human  soul  on  earth 
ever  seemed  to  suspect  me.  And  that  wasn't  odd, 
for  you  and  your  father,  and  perhaps  Minnie 
Moore,  were  the  only  people  in  the  world  who 
ever  knew  I  was  in  love  with  you  or  cared  for  you 
in  any  way." 

"Go  on,"  I  said,  breathless.  "And  you  went 
into  the  library." 

"I  went  into  the  library,"  Jack  continued, 
"where  I  found  your  father,  just  returned  from 
enjoying  his  cigar  on  the  lawn.  He  was  alone  in 
the  room " 

"No,  no!"  I  cried  eagerly,  putting  in  my  share 
now,  for  I  had  a  part  in  the  history.  "He  wasn't 
alone.  Jack,  though  you  thought  him  so  at  the 
time.  I  remember  all,  at  last.  It  comes  back  to 
me  like  a  flash.  Oh,  Heavens,  how  it  comes  back 
to  me!  Jack,  Jack,  I  remember  to-day  every 
word,  every  syllable  of  it !" 

He  gazed  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Then  tell  me  yourself,  Una!"  he  exclaime  i. 
"How  did  you  come  to  be  there?  For  I  knew 
you  were  there  at  last;  but  till  you  fired  the 
pistol,  I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  you  had  heard  or 
seen  anything.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  quick! 
There  comes  in  my  mystery." 

In  one  wild  rush  of  thought  the  whole  picture 
rose  up  like  a  vision  before  me. 

"Why,  Jack,"  I  cried,  "there  was  a  screen,  a  lit- 
tle screen  in  the  alcove!    You   remember  the 


:  i 
i  i 

(! 


ii 


MV  MEMORY  RETURNS. 


205 


alcove  at  the  west  end  of  the  room.  It  was  so 
small  a  screen  you'd  hardly  have  thought  it  could 
hide  me ;  but  it  did — it  did — and  all,  too,  by  acci- 
dent. I'd  gone  in  there  after  dinner,  not  much 
thinking  where  I  went,  and  was  seated  on  the 
floor  by  the  little  alcove  window,  reading  a  book 
by  the  twilight.  It  was  a  book  papa  told  me  I 
wasn't  to  read,  and  I  took  it  trembHng  from  the 
shelves,  and  was  afraid  he'd  scold  me — for  you 
know  how  stern  he  was.  And  I  never  was  al- 
lowed to  go  alone  irto  the  library.  But  I  got 
interested  in  my  book,  and  went  on  reading.  So 
when  he  came  in,  I  went  on  sitting  there  very 
still,  with  the  book  hidden  under  my  skirt,  for 
fear  he  should  scold  me.  I  thought  perhaps 
before  long  papa'd  go  out  for  a  second,  to  get 
some  plates  for  his  photography  or  something, 
and  then  I  could  slip  away  and  never  be  noticed. 
The  big  window  toward  the  garden  was  open,  you 
remember,  and  I  meant  to  jump  out  of  it — as  you 
did  afterward.  It  wasn't  very  high ;  and  though 
the  book  was  only  'The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  he'd 
forbidden  me  to  read  it,  and  I  was  dreadfully 
afraid  of  him." 

"Then  you  were  there  all  the  time?"  Jack  cried 
interrogatively.  "And  you  heard  our  conversa- 
tion— our  whole  conversation?" 

'T  was  there  all  the  time.  Jack,"  I  cried,  in  a 
fever  of  exaltation ;  "and  I  heard  every  word  of 
it !     It  comes  back  to  me  now  with  a  vividness 


206 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE. 


':! 


like  yesterday.  I  see  the  room  before  my  eyes. 
I  remember  every  syllable ;  I  could  repeat  every 
sentence  of  it." 

Jack  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  intense  relief. 

"Thank  God  for  that !"  he  exclaimed,  with  pro- 
found gratitude.  'Then  I'm  saved,  and  you're 
saved.  We  can  both  understand  one  another  in 
that  case.     We  know  how  it  all  happened  !'* 

"Perfectly,"  I  answered.  "I  know  all  now. 
As  I  sat  there  and  cowered,  I  heard  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  before  papa  could  answer,  you  en- 
tered hastily.  Papa  looked  round,  I  could  hear, 
and  saw  who  it  was  in  a  second. 

"  'Oh,  it's  you  !'  he  said  coldly.  'It's  you,  Dr. 
Ivor.  And  pray,  sir,  what  do  you  want  here  this 
evening?' " 

"Go  on  !**  Jack  cried,  intensely  relieved,  I  could 
feel.  "Let  me  see  how  much  more  you  can 
remember,  Una." 

"So  you  shut  the  door  softly  and  said : 

"  'Yes,  it's  I,  Mr.  CalHngham,'  "  I  continued  all 
aglow,  and  looking  into  his  eyes  for  confirmation. 
"  'And  I've  come  to  tell  you  a  fact  that  may  sur- 
prise you.  Prepare  for  strange  news.  Richard 
Wharton  has  returned  to  England !' 

"I  knew  Richard  Wharton  was  mamma's  first 
husband,  who  was  dead  before  I  was  born,  as  I'd 
always  been  told ;  and  I  sat  there  aghast  at  the 
news;  it  was  so  sudden,  so  crushing.  I'd  heard 
he'd  been  wrecked,  and  I  thought  he  d  come  to 


M  y  MEMOIR  y  RE  TURNS. 


207 


life  again ;  but  as  yet  I  didn't  suspect  what  was 
all  the  real  meaning  of  it. 

"But  papa  drew  back,  I  could  hear,  in  a  perfect 
frenzy  of  rage,  astonishment,  and  terror. 

"  'Richard  Wharton  !*  he  hissed  out  between 
his  teeth,  springing  away  like  one  stung.  'Rich- 
ard Wharton  come  back?  You  liar!  You  sneak! 
He's  dead  this  twenty  years !  You're  trying  to 
frighten  me.' 

"I  never  meant  to  overhear  your  conversation. 
But  at  that,  it  was  so  strange,  I  drew  back  and 
cowered  even  closer.  I  was  afraid  of  papa's  voice. 
I  was  afraid  of  his  rage.  He  spoke  just  like  a 
man  who  was  ready  to  murder  you. 

"Then  you  began  to  talk  with  papa  about 
strange  things  that  astonished  me — strange  things 
that  I  only  half  understood  just  then,  but  that  by 
the  light  of  what  you've  told  me  to-day  I  quite 
understand  now — the  history  of  my  real  father. 

"  'I'm  no  liar,'  you  answered.  'Richard  Whar- 
ton has  come  back.  And  by  the  aid  of  what  he's 
disclosed,  I  know  the  whole  truth.  The  girl  you 
call  your  daughter,  and  whose  money  youVe 
stolen,  is  not  yours  at  all.  She's  Richard  Whar- 
ton's daughter  Mary !' 

"Papa  staggered  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  came 
quite  close  to  the  screen.  I  cowered  behind  it  in 
alarm.  I  could  see  he  was  terrified.  For  a  min- 
ute or  two  you  talked  with  him,  and  urged  him 
to  confess.    Bit  by  bit,  as  you  went  on,  he  recov- 


208 


RECALLED   J  0  LIFE. 


'^y:^»i 


% 


ered  his  nerve,  and  began  to  bluster.  He  didn't 
deny  what  you  said ;  he  saw  it  was  no  use ;  he 
just  sneered  and  prevaricated. 

"As  I  listened  to  his  words,  I  saw  he  admitted 
it  all.  A  great  horror  came  over  me.  Then  my 
life  was  one  long  lie.  He  was  never  my  father. 
He  had  concocted  a  vile  plot.  He  had  held  me 
in  this  slavery  so  many  years  to  suit  his  own  pur- 
poses. He  had  crushed  my  mother  to  death,  and 
robbed  me  of  my  birthright.  Even  before  that 
night,  I  never  loved  him.  I  thought  it  very 
wicked  of  me,  but  I  never  could  love  him.  As  he 
spoke  to  you  and  grew  cynical,  I  began  to  loathe 
and  despise  him.  I  can't  tell  you  how  great  a 
comfort  it  was  to  me  to  know,  to  hear  from  his 
own  lips,  I  was  not  that  man's  daughter. 

"At  last,  after  many  recriminations,  he  looked 
across  at  you,  and  said,  half  laughing,  for  he  was 
quite  himself  again  by  that  time : 

"  'This  is  all  very  fine,  Courtenay  Ivor — all 
very  fine  in  its  way ;  but  how  are  you  going  to 
prove  it?  that's  the  real  question.  Do  you  think 
any  jury  in  England  will  believe,  on  your  unsup- 
p  ted  oath,  such  a  cock-and-bull  story?  Do  you 
think,  even  '*'  Richard  Wharton's  come  back,  and 
you  ve  got  him  on  your  side,  I  can't  cross-exam- 
ine all  the  life  out  of  his  body?' 

"At  that  you  said  gravely,  wanting  to  touch 
his  conscience,  I  suppose : 

"  'Richard  Wharton's  come  back,  but  you  can't 


AfV  MEMORY  RETURNS. 


209 


n't 
he 


cross-examine  him.  For  Richard  Wharton  died 
some  six  or  eight  weeks  since  at  my  cottage  at 
Babbicombe,  after  revealing  to  me  all  this  vile 
plot  against  himself  and  his  daughter.' 

"Then  papa  drew  back  with  a  loud  laugh — a 
hateful  laugh  like  a  demon's.  I  can't  help  calling 
him  papa  still,  though  it  pains  me  even  to  think 
of  him.  That  loud  laugh  rings  still  in  my  ears  to 
this  day.  It  was  horrible,  diabolical,  like  a  wild 
beast's  in  triumph. 

"  'You  fool !'  he  £aid,  with  a  sneer.  'And  you 
come  here  to  tell  me  that!  You  infernal  idiot! 
You  come  here  to  put  yourself  in  my  power  like 
this !  Courtenay  Ivor,  I  always  knew  you  were  an 
ass,  but  I  didn't  ever  know  you  were  quite  such  a 
born  idiot  of  a  fellow  as  that.  Hold  back  there, 
you  image !'  With  a  rapid  dart,  before  you  could 
see  what  he  was  doing,  he  passed  a  wire  round 
your  body  and  thrust  two  knobs  into  your  hands. 
'You're  in  my  power  now!'  he  exclaimed.  'You 
can't  move  or  stir!' 

"I  saw  at  once  what  he'd  done.  He'd  pinned 
you  to  the  spot  with  the  handles  of  his  powerful 
electric  apparatus.  It  was  so  strong  that  it  would 
hold  one  riveted  to  the  spot  in  pain.  You 
couldn't  let  go.  You  could  hardly  even  speak  or 
cry  aloud  for  help.  He  had  pinned  you  down 
irresistibly.     I  thought  he  meant  to  murder  you. 

"Yet  I  was  too  terrified,  even  so,  to  scream 
aloud  for  the  servants.     I  only  crouched  there, 


2ro 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE. 


i;, !  f 


rooted,  and  wondered  what  next  would  hap- 
pen. 

"He  went  across  to  the  door  and  turned  the 
key  in  it.  Then  he  opened  the  cabinet  and  took 
out  some  things  there.  It  was  growing  quite 
dusk,  and  I  could  hardly  see  them.  He  returned 
with  them  to  where  you  stood,  struggling  in  vain 
to  set  yourself  free.  His  voice  was  as  hard  as 
adamant  now.  He  spoke  slowly  and  distinctly, 
in  a  voice  like  a  fiend's.  Oh,  Jack,  no  wonder 
that  scene  took  away  my  reason !" 

"And  you  can  remember  what  he  said  next, 
Una?"  Jack  asked,  following  me  eagerly. 

"Yes,  I  can  remember  what  he  said  next,"  I 
went  on.  "He  stood  over  you  threateningly.  I 
could  see  then  the  thing  he  held  in  his  right  hand 
was  a  loaded  revolver.  In  his  left  was  a  bottle,  a 
small  medical  vial. 

"  *If  you  stir,  I'll  shoot  you,*  he  said ;  'I'll  shoot 
you  like  a  dog!  You  fool,  you've  sealed  your 
own  fate !  What  an  idiot  to  let  me  know  Rich- 
ard Wharton's  dead !  Now,  hear  your  fate !  No- 
body saw  you  come  into  this  house  to-night. 
Nobody  shall  see  you  leave.  Look  here,  sir,  at 
this  bottle.  It's  chloroform ;  do  you  understand  ? 
Chloroform — chloroform  —  chloroform !  I  shall 
hold  it  to  your  nose — so.  I  shall  stifle  you 
quietly — no  blood,  no  fuss,  no  nasty  mess  of  any 
sort.  And  when  I'm  done, — do  you  see  these 
flasks? — I  can  reduce  your  damned  carcases  to  a 


MY  MEMOIR  V  RETURNS. 


211 


pound  of  ashes  in  half  an  hour!  You've  found 
out  too  much.  But  youVe  mistaken  your  man ! 
Courtenay  Ivor,  say  your  prayers  and  commend 
your  soul  to  the  devil !  You've  driven  me  to  bay, 
and  I  give  you  no  quarter!' " 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE  FATAL  SHOT. 

"nPHANK  GOD,  Una,"  Jack  cried,  "you  remem- 
1    ber  it  now  even  better  than  I  do !" 

"Remember  it !"  I  answered,  holding  my  brow 
with  my  hands  to  keep  the  flood  of  thouj^ht  from 
bursting  it  to  fragments.  "Remember  it!  Why, 
it  comes  back  to  me  like  waves  of  fire  and  burns 
me.  I  remember  every  word,  every  act,  every 
gesture.  I  lifted  my  head  slowly,  Jack,  and 
looked  over  the  screen  at  him.  In  the  twilight,  I 
saw  him  there — the  man  I  called  my  father — 
holding  the  bottle  to  your  face,  that  wicked  bot- 
tle of  chloroform,  with  his  revolver  in  one  hand, 
and  a  calm  smile  like  a  fiend's  playing  hatefully 
and  cruelly  round  that  grave-looking  mouth  of 
his.  I  never  saw  any  man  look  so  ghastly  in  my 
life.  I  was  rooted  to  the  spot  with  awe  and  ter- 
ror. I  dared  hardly  cry  out  or  move.  Yet.  I 
knew  this  was  murder.  He  would  kill  you  !  He 
would  kill  you !  He  was  trying  to  poison  you 
before  my  very  eyes.  Oh,  Heaven,  how  I  hated 
him !  He  was  no  father  of  mine.  He  had  never 
been  my  father.    And  he  was  murdering  the  man 


8ZS 


THE  FATAL  SHOT. 


"3 


I  loved  best  in  the  world.  For  I  loved  you  bet- 
ter than  life,  Jack!  Oh,  the  strain  of  it  was  terri- 
ble! I  see  it  all  now.  I  live  it  all  over  again. 
With  one  wild  bound  I  leapt  forward,  and,  hardly 
knowing  what  I  did,  I  pressed  the  button,  turned 
off  the  current  from  the  battery,  and  rushed 
wildly  upon  him.  I  suppose  the  knob  I  pressed 
not  only  released  you,  but  set  the  photographic 
machine  at  work  automatically.  But  I  didn't 
know  it  then.  At  any  rate,  I  remember  now,  in 
the  seconds  that  followed,  flash  came  fast  after 
flash.  There  was  a  sudden  illumination.  The 
room  was  lighter  than  day.  It  grew  alternately 
bright  as  noon  ^nd  then  dark  as  pitch  again  by 
contrast.  And  by  the  light  of  the  flashes,  I  saw 
you,  half-dazed  with  the  chloroform,  standing 
helpless  there. 

*T  rushed  up  and  caught  the  man's  arm.  He 
was  never  my  father!  He  dropped  the  bottle 
and  struggled  hard  for  the  possession  of  the  pis- 
tol. First  he  pointed  it  at  you,  then  at  me,  then 
at  you  again.  He  meant  to  shoot  you.  I  was 
afraid  it  would  go  off.  With  a  terrible  effort  I 
twisted  his  wrist  awry,  in  the  mad  force  of  pas- 
sion, and  wrenched  the  revolver  away  from  him. 
He  jumped  at  my  throat,  still  silent,  but  fierce 
like  a  tiger  at  bay.  I  eluded  him,  and  sprang 
back.  Then  I  remember  no  more,  except  that  I 
stood  with  the  pistol  pointed  at  him.  Next,  came 
a  flash,  a  loud  roar.    And  then,  in  a  moment,  the 


114 


RECALLED    TO  LIFE, 


Picture.  He  lay  dead  on  the  floor  in  his  blood. 
And  my  Second  State  began.  And  from  that 
day,  for  months,  I  was  like  a  little  child  again." 

Jack  looked  at  me  as  I  paused. 

"And  then?"  he  went  on  in  a  very  low  voice, 
half  prompting  me. 

"And  then  all  I  can  remember,"  I  said,  "is  how 
you  got  out  of  the  window.  But  I  didn't  know, 
when  I  saw  you,  it  was  you  or  any  one  else. 
That  was  my  Second  State  then.  The  shot 
seemed  to  end  all.  What  comes  next  is  quite 
different.  It  belongs  to  the  new  world.  There, 
my  life  stopped  dead  short  and  began  all  over 
again." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Jack  was  the 
first  to  break  it. 

**And  now  will  you  give  yourself  up  to  the 
police,  Una?"  he  asked  me  quietly. 

The  question  brought  me  back  to  the  present 
again  with  a  bound. 

"Oh!  what  ought  I  to  do?"  I  cried,  wringing 
my  hands.  "I  don't  quite  know  all  yet.  Jack, 
why  did  you  run  away  that  last  moment  and 
leave  me?" 

Jack  took  my  hand  very  seriously. 

"Una,  my  child,"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
mine,  "I  hardly  know  whether  I  can  ever  make 
you  understand  all  that.  I  must  ask  you  at  first 
at  least  just  simply  to  believe  me.  I  must  ask 
you   to  trust   me   and   to  accept    my  account. 


THE  FATAL  SHOT, 


"5 


When  you  rushed  upon  mc  as  I  stood  there,  all 
entangled  in  that  hateful  apparatus,  and  unable 
to  move,  I  didn't  know  where  you  had  been ;  I 
didn't  know  how  you'd  come  there.  But  I  felt 
sure  you  must  have  heard  at  least  your  false 
father's  last  words — that  he'd  stifle  me  with  the 
chloroform  and  burn  my  body  up  afterward  to 
ashes  with  his  chemicals.  You  seized  the  pistol 
before  I  could  quite  recover  from  the  effects  of 
the  fumes.  He  lay  dead  at  my  feet  before  I  real- 
ized what  was  happening. 

"Then,  in  a  moment,  as  I  looked  at  you,  T  took 
it  all  in,  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  I  saw  how  im- 
possible it  would  be  ever  to  convince  anybody 
else  of  the  truth  of  our  story.  I  saw  if  we  both 
told  the  truth,  no  one  would  c  /er  believe  us. 
There  was  no  time  then  to  reflect,  no  time  to 
hesitate.  I  had  to  make  up  my  mind  at  once  to 
a  plan  of  action,  and  to  carry  it  out  without  a 
second's  delay.  In  one  burst  of  inspiration,  I  saw 
that  to  stop  would  be  to  seal  both  our  fates.  I 
didn't  mind  so  much  for  myself;  that  was  noth- 
ing, nothing;  but  for  your  sake  I  felt  I  must  dare 
and  risk  everything.  Then  I  turned  round  and 
looked  at  you.  I  saw  at  one  glance  the  horror  of 
the  moment  had  rendered  you  speechless  and 
almost  senseless.  The  right  plan  came  to  me  at 
once  as  if  by  magic.  'Una,'  I  cried,  'stand  back! 
Wait  till  the  servants  come!'  For  I  knew  the 
report  of  the  revolver  would  soon  bring  then,  up 


I 


2l6 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


to  the  library.  Then  I  waited  myself.  As  they 
reached  the  door,  and  forced  it  open,  I  jumped 
up  to  the  window.  Just  outside,  my  bicycle 
stood  propped  against  the  wall.  I  let  them  pur- 
posely catch  just  a  glimpse  of  my  back — an  unfa- 
miliar figure.  They  saw  the  pistol  on  the  floor, — 
Mr.  Callingham  dead, — you,  startled  and  horrified, 
— a  man  unknown,  escaping  in  hot  haste  from  the 
window.  I  risked  my  own  life,  so  as  to  save  your 
name  and  honor.  I  let  them  see  me  escape,  so  as 
to  exonerate  you  from  suspicion.  If  they  hanged 
me,  what  matter?  Then  I  leapt  down  in  a  hurry, 
jumped  lightly  on  my  machine,  and  rode  off  like 
the  wind  down  the  avenue  to  the  high-road. 
For  a  second  or  two  they  waited  to  look  at  you 
and  your  father.  That  second  or  two  saved  us. 
By  the  time  they'd  come  out  to  look,  I  was  away 
down  the  grounds,  past  the  turn  of  the  avenue, 
and  well  on  for  the  high-road.  They'd  seen  a 
glimpse  of  the  murderer,  escaping  by  the  window. 
They  would  never  suspect  you.  You  v/ere  saved, 
and  I  was  happy." 

"And  for  the  same  reason  even  now,"  I  said, 
"you  wouldn't  tell  the  police?" 

"Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,"  Jack  answered,  in  the 
same  words  as  Dr.  Marten.  "Why  rake  up  this 
whole  matter?  It's  finished  forever  now,  and 
nobody  but  yourself  is  ever  likely  to  reopen 
it.  If  we  both  told  our  tale,  we  might  run  a 
great  risk  of  being  seriously  misinterpret'^d.    You 


P 


THE  FATAL  SHOT. 


217 


know  it's  true ;  so  do  I ;  but  who  else  would 
believe  us?  No  man's  bound  to  criminate  him- 
self. You  shot  him  to  save  my  life,  at  the  very 
moment  when  you  first  learned  all  his  cruelty 
and  his  vileness.  The  rest  of  the  world  could 
never  be  made  to  understand  all  that.  They'd 
say  to  the  end,  as  it  looks  on  the  surface,  'She 
shot  her  father  to  save  her  lover.'  " 

"You're  right,"  I  said  slowly.  "I  shall  let  this 
thing  rest.  But  the  photographs.  Jack — the  ap- 
paratus— the  affair  of  the  inquest?" 

"That  was  all  very  ^^imple,"  Jack  answered. 
"For  a  day  or  two,  of  course,  I  was  in  a  frantic 
state  of  mind  for  fear  you  should  be  suspected, 
or  the  revolver  should  betray  you.  But  though  I 
saw  the  electric  sparks,  of  course,  I  knew  nothing 
about  the  photographs.  I  wasn't  even  aware  that 
the  apparatus  took  negatives  automatically.  And 
I  was  so  full  of  the  terrible  reports  in  the  news- 
papers about  your  sudden  loss  of  health,  that  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else — least  of  all  my  own 
saiety.  As  good  luck  would  have  it,  however,  the 
clergyman  at  Wrode,  who  knew  the  Wilsons,  hap- 
pened to  speak  to  me  of  the  murder, — all  England 
called  it  the  murder  and  talked  of  nothing  else  for 
at  least  a  fortnight, — and  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation he  mentioned  this  apparatus  of  Mr.  Cal- 
lingham's  construction.  'What  a  pity,'  he  said, 
'there  didn't  happen  to  be  one  of  them  in  the 
library  at  the  time !     If  it  was  focused  toward  the 


2X8 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


i'i 


m 


"I 


persons,  and  had  been  set  on  by  the  victim,  it 
would  have  photographed  the  whole  scene,  the 
murder,  the  murderer.' 

"That  hint  revealed  much  to  me.  As  he  spoke, 
I  remembered  suddenly  about  those  mysterious 
flashes  when  you  burst  all  at  once  on  my  sight 
from  behind  the  screen.  Till  that  moment,  I 
thought  of  them  only  as  some  result  of  your  too 
suddenly  turning  off  the  electric  current.  But 
then  it  came  home  to  me  in  a  second  that  Mr. 
Callingham  must  have  set  out  his  apparatus  all 
ready  for  experimenting — that  the  electric  appa- 
ratus was  there  to  put  it  in  working  order.  The 
button  you  turned  must  not  only  have  stopped 
rhe  current  that  nailed  me  writhing  to  .xie  spot : 
it  must  also  have  set  working  the  automatic  photo- 
graphic camera ! 

"That  thought,  as  you  may  imagine,  filled  me 
with  speechless  alarm :  for  I  remembered  then 
that  or'  of  the  flashes  broke  upon  us  at  the  exact 
moment  when  you  fired  the  pistol.  Such  a  possi- 
bility was  horrible  to  contemplate.  The  photo- 
graphs by  themselves  could  give  no  clew  to  our 
conversation  or  to  the  events  that  compelled  you, 
almost  against  your  own  will,  to  fire  that  fatal 
shot.  If  they  were  found  by  the  police,  all  would 
be  up  with  both  of  us.  They  might  hang  me  if 
they  liked ;  except  for  Elsie's  sake,  I  didn't  mind 
much  about  that ;  but  for  your  safety,  come  what 


THE  FATAL  SHOT. 


319 


might,  I  felt  1  must  manage  to  get  hold  of  them 
or  to  destroy  them. 

"Were  the  negatives  already  in  the  hands  of  the 
police?  That  was  now  the  great  question.  I 
read  the  reports  diligently,  with  all  their  descrip- 
tions of  the  room,  and  noticed  that  while  the  table, 
the  alcove,  the  screen,  the  box,  the  electrical  appa- 
ratus, were  all  carefully  mentioned,  not  a  word 
was  said  anywhere  about  the  possession  of  the 
negatives.  Reasoning  further  upon  the  descrip- 
Lsjii  of  the  supposed  murderer  as  given  by  the 
servants,  and  placarded  broadcast  in  every  town 
in  England,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  po- 
lice couldn't  yet  have  discovered  the  existence  of 
these  negatives;  for  some  of  them  must  surely 
have  photographed  my  face,  however  little  in 
focus;  while  the  printed  descriptions  mentioned 
only  the  man's  back,  as  the  servants  saw  him 
escapirif.^  from  the  window.  The  oapers  said  the 
roon  ' .  I';  being  kept  closed  till  the  inquest,  for  in- 
spectic  \  iH  due  time  by  the  coroner's  jury.  I 
made  up  iny  mind  at  once.  When  the  room  was 
opened  for  the  jurors  to  view  it,  I  must  get  in 
there  and  carry  them  off,  if  they  caught  me  in  the 
attempt. 

"It  was  no  use  trying  before  the  jury  had  seen 
tiic  room.  But  as  soon  as  that  was  all  over,  I 
judged  the  strictness  of  the  watch  upon  the  prem- 
ises would  be  relaxed,  and  the  v.  jndows  would 


T 


220 


RECALLED   TO  LIFE, 


i1 


probably  be  opened  a  little  to  air  the  place.  So 
on  the  morning  of  the  inquest,  I  told  the  Wilsons 
casually  I'd  met  you  at  Torquay,  and  had  there- 
fore a  sort  of  interest  in  learning  the  result  of  the 
coroner's  deliberation.  Then  I  took  my  bicycle, 
and  rode  across  to  Woodbury.  Leaning  up  my 
machine  against  the  garden  wall,  I  walked  care- 
lessly in  at  the  gate,  and  up  the  walk  to  the  library 
window,  as  if  the  place  bel  nored  to  me.  Oh,  how 
my  heart  beat  as  I  looked  in  ..  <  wondered  I  The 
folding  halves  were  open,  and  the  box  stood  on  the 
table,  still  connected  with  the  wires  that  con- 
ducted the  electrical  current.  I  stood  and  hesi- 
tated in  alarm.  Were  the  negatives  still  there,  or 
had  the  police  discovered  them?  If  they  were 
gone,  all  was  up  with  you.  The  game  was  lost.  No 
jury  on  earth,  I  felt  sure,  would  believe  my  story. 
"I  vaulted  up  to  the  sill.  Thank  Heaven,  I  was 
athletic.  Not  a  soul  was  about;  but  I  heard  a 
noise  of  muffled  voices  in  the  other  rooms  behind. 
Treading  cat-like  across  the  floor,  I  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock.  A  chalk  mark  still  showed  the  posi- 
tion  of  the  pistol  on  the  ground  exactly  as  you 
flung  it.  The  box  was  on  the  table,  and  I  saw  at 
a  glance  the  wires  which  connected  it  with  the 
battery  had  never  been  disconnected.  I  was  afraid 
of  receiving  a  shock  if  I  touched  them  with  my 
hands,  and  I  had  no  time  to  waste  in  discovering 
electrical  attachments.  So  I  pulled  out  my  knife, 
and  you  can  fancy  with  what  trembling  hands  I 


■r 


THE  FATAL  SHOT. 


221 


cut  that  wire  on  either  side  and  released  the  box 
from  its  dangerous  connections.  I  knew  only  too 
well  the  forcr  of  that  current.  Then  I  took  the 
thing  under  my  arm,  leaped  from  the  window  once 
more,  and  ran  across  the  shrubbery  toward  the 
spot  where  I'd  left  my  bicycle. 

*'0n  the  way,  the  thought  struck  me  that  if  I 
carried  along  the  camera,  all  would  be  up  with 
me  should  I  happen  to  be  challenged.  It  was 
the  only  one  of  the  sort  in  existence  at  the 
time,  and  the  wires  at  the  side  would  at  once 
suffice  to  identify  it  and  to  arouse  the  suspicion 
even  of  an  English  policeman.  I  paused  for  a 
moment  behind  a  thick  clump  of  lilacs  and  tried 
to  pull  out  the  incriminating  negatives.  Oh,  Una, 
I  did  it  for  your  sake;  but  there,  terrified  and 
trembling,  in  hiding  behind  the  bushes,  and  in 
danger  of  my  life,  with  that  still  more  unspeaka- 
ble danger  for  yours  haunting  me  always  like  a 
nightmare,  can  you  wonder  that  for  the  moment  I 
almost  felt  myself  a  murderer?  The  very  breezes 
in  the  trees  made  my  heart  give  a  jump,  and  then 
stand  still  within  me.  I  got  out  the  first  two  or 
three  plates  with  some  trifling  difficulty,  for  I 
didn't  understand  the  automatic  apparatus  then  as 
I  understand  it  :iow ;  but  the  fourth  stuck  hard  for 
a  minute ;  the  fifth  broke  in  two ;  and  the  sixth — 
well,  the  sixth  plate  baffled  me  entirely  by  getting 
jammed  in  the  clockwork,  and  refusing  to  move, 
either  backward  or  forwardt 


232 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


\i\ 


% 


m 


"At  that  moment,  I  either  heard,  or  fancied  I 
heard,  a  loud  noise  of  pursuit,  a  hue  and  cry  be- 
hind me.  Zeal  for  your  safety  had  made  me  pre- 
ternaturally  nervous.  I  looked  about  me  hur- 
riedly, thrust  the  negatives  I'd  recovered  into  my 
breast-pocket  as  fast  as  ever  I  could,  flung  the  ap- 
paratus away  from  me  with  the  sixth  plate  jammed 
hard  in  the  groove,  and  made  off  at  the  top  of  my 
speed  for  the  wall  behind  me.  For  there,  at  that 
critical  point,  it  occurred  to  me  suddenly  that  the 
sixth  and  last  flash  of  the  machine  had  come  and 
gone  just  as  I  stood  poising  myself  on  the  ledge 
of  the  window-sill;  and  I  thought  to  myself — 
rightly  as  it  turned  out — this  additional  evidence 
would  only  strengthen  the  belief  in  the  public 
mind  that  Mr.  Callingham  had  been  murdered  by 
the  man  whom  the  servants  saw  escaping  from  the 
v'indow. 

"The  rest,  my  child,  you  know  pretty  well 
already.  In  a  panic  on  your  account,  I  scrambled 
over  the  wall,  tearing  my  hands  as  I  went  with 
that  nasty  bottle-glass,  reached  my  bicycle  out- 
side, and  made  off,  not  for  the  country,  but  for 
the  inn  where  they  were  holding  the  coroner's  in- 
quest. My  left  hand  I  had  to  hold,  tied  up  in  my 
handkerchief  to  stop  the  bleeding,  in  the  pocket 
of  my  jacket ;  but  I  thought  this  the  best  way,  all 
the  same,  to  escape  detection.  And,  indeed,  in- 
stead of  being,  as  I  feared,  the  only  man  there  in 
bicycling  dress  and  knickerbockers,  I  found  the 


l,TJ/E  FATAL  SHOT. 


S93 


occasion  had  positively  attracted  all  the  cyclists  of 
the  neighborhood.  Each  man  went  there  to  show 
his  own  innocence  of  fear  or  suspicion.  A  good 
dozen  or  two  of  bicyclists  stood  gathered  already 
in  the  body  of  the  room  in  the  same  incriminating 
costume.  So  I  found  safety  in  numbers.  Even 
the  servants  who  had  seen  me  disappear  through 
the  window,  though  their  eyes  lighted  upon  me 
more  than  once,  never  for  a  moment  seemed  to 
suspect  me.  And  I  know  very  well  why.  When 
I  stand  up,  I'm  the  straightest  and  most  perpen- 
dicular man  that  ever  walked  erect.  But  when  I 
poise  to  jump,  I  bend  my  spine  so  much  that  I 
produce  the  impression  of  being  almost  hump- 
backed. It  was  that  attitude  you  recognized  in 
me  when  I  jumped  from  the  window  just  now." 

'*Why,  Jack,"  I  cried,  clinging  to  him  in  a  per- 
fect whirlwind  of  wonder,  "one  can  hardly  believe 
it — that  was  only  an  hour  ago !" 

"That  was  only  an  hour  ago,"  Jack  answered, 
smiling.  "But  as  for  you,  I  suppose  youVe  lived 
half  a  lifetime  again  in  it.  And  now  you  know 
the  whole  secret  of  the  Woodbury  Mystery,  and 
you  won't  want  to  give  yourself  up  to  the  police 
any  longer.'* 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


s; 


all's  well  that  ends  well. 

"DUT  why  didn't  you  explain  it  all  to  me  at 
LJ  the  very  first?"   I  exclaimed,  all  tremulous. 
"When  you   met  me  at   Quebec,  I  mean;  why* 
didn't  you   tell   me  then?    Did  you  and  Elsie 
come  there  on  purpose  to  meet  me?" 

"Yes,  we  came  there  to  meet  you,"  Jack  an- 
swered. "But  we  were  afraid  to  make  ourselves 
known  to  you  all  at  once  just  at  first,  because, 
you  see,  Una,  I  more  than  half  suspected  then, 
what  I  know  now  to  be  the  truth,  that  you  were 
coming  out  to  Canada  on  purpose  to  hunt  me  up, 
not  as  your  friend  and  future  husband,  but  in 
enmity  and  suspicion  as  your  father's  murderer. 
And  in  any  case  we  were  uncertain  which  attitude 
you  might  adopt  toward  me.  But  I  see  I  must 
explain  a  little  more  even  now.  I  haven't  told 
you  yet  why  I  came  at  all  to  Canada." 

"Tell  me  now,"  I  answered.  "I  must  know 
everything  to-day.  I  can  never  rest  now  till  I've 
heard  the  whole  story." 

"Well,"  Jack  went  on  more  calmly,  "after  the 
first  excitement  wore  off  in  the  public  mind,  there 


ALVS  WELL  THA  T  E^TDS  PTEll. 


225 


came,  after  a  bit,  a  lull  of  languid  interest ;  the 
papers  began  to  forget  the  supposed  facts  of  the 
murder,  and  to  dwell  far  more  upon  your  own 
new  r^/^  as  a  psychological  curiosity.  They 
talked  much  about  your  strange  new  life  and  its 
analogies  elsewhere.  I  was  anxious  to  see  you, 
of  course,  to  satisfy  myself  of  your  condition ;  but 
the  doctors  who  had  charge  of  you  refused  to  let 
you  mix  for  a  while  with  any  one  you  had  known 
in  your  First  State ;  and  I  now  think  wisely.  It 
was  best  you  should  recover  your  general  health 
and  faculties  by  slow  degrees,  without  being  puz- 
zled and  distracted  by  constant  upsetting  recol- 
lections and  suggestions  of  your  past  history. 

"But  for  me,  of  course,  at  the  time,  the  separa- 
tion was  terrible.  Each  morning,  I  read  with  fev- 
erish interest  the  reports  of  your  health,  and 
longed,  day  after  day,  to  hear  of  some  distinct 
improvement.  And  yet  at  the  same  time  I  was 
terrified  at  every  approach  to  complete  convales- 
cence ;  I  feared  that  if  you  got  better  at  all,  you 
might  remember  too  quick,  and  that  then  the 
sudden  rush  of  recollection  might  kill  you  or  up- 
set your  reason.  But  by  and  by  it  became  clear 
to  me  you  could  remember  nothing  of  the  actual 
shot  itself.  And  I  saw  plainly  why.  It  was  the 
firing  of  the  pistol  that  obliterated,  as  it  were, 
every  trace  of  your  past  life  in  your  disorganized 
brain.  And  it  obliterated  ttse//  too.  Your  new 
life  began  just  one  moment  later,  with  the  Pic- 


236 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


i; 


ture  of  the  dead  man  stretched  before  you  in  his 
blood  on  the  floor,  and  a  figure  in  the  background 
disappearing  through  the  window." 

How  clever  he  was,  to  be  sure!  I  saw  in  a 
moment  Jack  had  interpreted  my  whole  frame  of 
mind  correctly  and  wonderfully. 

"Well,  I  went  back  to  Babbicombe,"  Jack  con- 
tinued,  "and,  lest  my  heart  should  break  for  want 
of  human  sympathy,  1  confided  every  word  of  my 
terrible  story  to  Elsie.  Elsie  can  trust  me ;  and 
Elsie  believed  me.  Gradually,  as  you  began  to 
recover,  I  realized  the  soundness  of  your  doctor's 
idea  that  you  should  be  allowed  to  come  back  to 
yourself  by  re-education  from  the  very  beginning, 
without  any  too  early  intrusion  of  reminiscences 
from  your  previous  life  to  confuse  and  disturb 
you.  But  I  couldn't  go  on  with  my  profession, 
all  the  same,  while  I  waited.  I  couldn't  attend, 
as  I  ought,  to  my  patient's  wants  and  ailments ; 
I  was  too  concentrated  upon  you ;  the  strain  was 
too  great  upon  me.  So  I  threw  up  my  practice, 
came  out  to  Canada,  bought  a  bit  of  land,  and 
began  farming  here,  and  seeing  a  few  patients 
now  and  again  locally,  just  to  fill  up  my  time 
with.  I  felt  confident  in  the  end  you  would  re- 
cover and  remember  me.  I  felt  confident  you 
would  come  to  yourself  and  marry  me.  But  still, 
it  was  very  long  work  waiting.  Every  month, 
Elsie  got  news  indirectly  from  Minnie  Moore,  or 
some  one,  of  your  state  of  hes^lth ;  and  I  intended 


ALL'S  IVELL   TI/AT  K^VDS  WELL, 


227 


to  go  back  and  try  to  see  you  as  soon  as  ever  you 
were  in  a  condition  to  bear  the  shock  of  reliving 
your  previous  life  again. 

"  Unfortunately,  however,  the  police  got  hold 
of  you  before  I  could  carry  my  plan  into  execu- 
tion. As  soon  as  I  heard  that,  I  made  up  my 
mind  at  once  to  go  home  by  the  first  mail  and 
break  it  all  gently  to  you.  So  Elsie  and  I  started 
for  Quebec,  meaning  to  sail  by  the  Dominion 
steamer  for  England.  But  at  the  hotel  at  Que- 
bec we  saw  the  telegrams  announcing  that  you 
were  then  on  your  way  out  to  Canada.  Well,  of 
course  we  didn't  feel  sure  whether  you  came  as  a 
friend  or  an  enemy.  We  were  certain  it  was  to 
seek  me  out  you  were  coming  to  Ame»'ica;  but 
whether  you  remembered  me  still  and  still  loved 
me,  or  whether  you  had  found  out  some  stray  clew 
to  the  missing  man,  and  were  anxious  to  hunt  me 
down  as  your  father's  murderer,  we  hadn't  the 
slightest  conception.  So,  under  those  circum- 
stances, we  thought  it  best  not  to  meet  you  our- 
selves at  the  steamer,  or  to  reveal  our  identity  too 
soon,  for  fear  of  a  catastrophe.  I  knew  it  would 
be  better  to  wait  and  watch ;  to  gain  your  confi- 
dence, if  possible;  in  any  case,  to  find  out  how 
you  were  affected  on  first  seeing  us  and  talking 
with  us. 

"Well,  then,  as  the  time  came  on  for  the  Sarma- 
tian  to  arrive,  it  began  to  strike  me  by  degrees 
that  all  Quebec  was  agog  with  curiosity  to  see 


228 


RECALLED  TO  LIFE, 


\\ 


,  i 


you.  I  dared  not  go  down  to  meet  you  at  the 
quay  myself,  but  the  Chief  Constable  of  Quebec, 
Major  Tascherel,  was  an  old  friend  and  fellow- 
officer  of  my  father's;  and  when  I  explained  to 
him  my  fears  that  you  might  be  mobbed  by  sight- 
seers on  your  arrival  at  the  harbor,  and  told  him 
how  afraid  I  was  of  the  shock  it  might  give  you 
to  meet  an  old  friend  unexpectedly  at  the  steam- 
er's side,  he  very  kindly  consented  to  go  down 
and  see  you  safe  through  the  Custom  House.  It 
was  so  lucky  I  knew  him.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
that,  you  might  have  been  horribly  inconven- 
ienced. 

"As  you  may  imagine,  when  we  first  saw  you 
get  into  the  Pullman  car,  both  Elsie  and  I  felt 
our  hearts  come  up  into  our  mouths  with  sus- 
pense and  anxiety.  We'd  arranged  it  all  so  on 
purpose,  for  we  felt  sure  you  were  on  your  way 
to  Palmyra  to  find  us;  but  when  it  came  to  the 
actual  crisis,  we  wondered  most  nervously  what 
effect  the  sight  of  us  might  have  upon  your  sys- 
tem. But  in  a  moment  I  saw  you  didn't  remem- 
ber us  at  all,  or  only  vaguely  attached  to  us  some 
faint  sense  of  friendliness.  That  was  well,  be- 
cause  it  enabled  us  to  gain  your  confidence  easily. 
As  we  spoke  with  you,  the  sense  of  friendly  inter- 
est deepened.  I  knew  that,  all  unconsciously  to 
yourself,  you  loved  me  still,  and  that  in  a  very 
short  time,  if  only  I  could  see  you  and  be  with 
you,  I  might  bring  all  back  to  you." 


ALLS  WELL  TITA  T  ENDS  WELL 


999 


Jack  paused  and  looked  at  me.  As  he  paused, 
I  felt  my  old  self  revive  again  more  completely 
than  ever  with  a  rush. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  I  cried,  "so  you  have  done ;  so  you 
have  brought  all  back  to  me !  My  Second  State's 
over;  I'm  the  same  girl  you  used  to  know  at  Tor- 
quay  once  more.  I  remember  everything — every- 
thing— such  a  world — such  a  lifetime !  I  feel  as 
if  my  head  would  burst  with  all  the  things  I  re- 
member. I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  I'm 
so  tired,  so  weary." 

"Lay  it  here,"  Jack  said  simply. 

And  I  laid  it  on  his  shoulder,  just  as  I  used  to 
do  years  ago,  and  cried  so  long  in  silence,  and  was 
ever  so  much  comforted.  For  I've  admitted  all 
along  that  I'm  only  a  woman. 

There  we  sat,  hand  in  hand,  for  many  minutes 
more,  saying  never  another  word,  but  sympathiz- 
ing silently,  till  Elsie  returned  from  Palmyra. 

When  she  burst  into  the  room,  she  called  out 
lightly  as  she  entered : 

"Well,  I've  got  you  your  lemon,  Una,  and  I  do 

hope "      Then    she    broke    short    suddenly. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  she  cried  faltering,  and  half  guessing 
the  truth,  "what's  the  meaning  of  this?  Why, 
Una's  been  crying.  You  bad  boy,  you've  been 
frightening  her.  I  oughtn't  to  have  left  her  ten 
minutes  alone  with  you !" 

Jack  rose  and  held  up  his  hand  in  warning. 

"Don't  talk  to  her  at  present,  Elsie,"  he  said. 


aSP 


RECAIJ.ED  TO  LIFE. 


"You  needn't  be  afraid.  Una's  found  out  every- 
thing. She  remembers  all  now.  And  she  knows 
how  everything  happened.  And  she's  borne  it 
so  bravely,  without  any  more  shock  to  her  health 
and  strength  than  was  absolutely  inevitable  Let 
her  sleep  if  she  can.  It'll  do  her  so  much  good. 
But,  Elsie,  there's  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you 
bpth  before  I  hand  her  over  to  you.  After  all 
that's  happened,  I  don't  think  Una'll  want  to  hear 
that  hateful  name  of  Callingham  any  more.  It 
never  was  really  hers,  and  it  never  shall  be. 
We'll  let  bygones  be  bygones  in  every  other 
respect,  and  not  rake  up  any  details  of  that  hate- 
ful story.  But  she's  been  Ura  to  us  always,  and 
she  shall  be  Una  stil!.  It's  a  very  good  name  for 
her ;  for  there's  only  one  of  her.  But  next  week, 
I  propose,  she  shall  be  Una  Ivor." 

I  threw  myself  on  his  neck,  and  cried  again  like 
a  child. 

"I  accept,  Jack,"  I  said,  sobbing.  "Let  it  be 
Ivof,  if  you  will.  Next  week,  then,  I'll  be  your 
wife  at  last,  niy  darling !" 


\    ! 


THE  END. 


l:\ 


I 


X 


/ 


■if- 


(sc) 
PS845I 
L45R4 
1891 


t 

i 

I 

1       I 


lUXUlIXUI 


HB««K»«lHHHIIHIHlHmHII 


■  ■>li«»»»T»»»»«i  u».i  »«»««■«■»■■  ■■■HfgT^T'^TBmi 


WOMAN'S  WORK  IN  AMERICA. 

Editutl  by  Annii:  Nathan  Mbykh.     Introduction  by  .Iii^ia  Waud 
HOWK.     12mo.     i^l.W. 

005TKNTS  ;  Woni.'in  in  liibi cation,  (r/i  Jn  the  KaHt,  Mary  F. 
KttHtman.  {h)  In  tho  Wont,  May  Wright  Scwall.  (c)  In  tho  South, 
Clirintino  Ladd  Franklin.  In  Ijitc^aturo,  !It'b;n  Gray  Cone— In 
Journalism,  Siinan   K.    I)ickin^<on.     In   Medicim!,   Dr.    Mary  Putnam 

.Tacobi. In  Ministry,    Rev.    Ada  (\  Howies.      In   the  Stat«.',,   Mary  A. 

Iji/ermore.  -  In  Law,  Ada  M.  Hittenbendcr.  In  Industry,  Alice 
llyneman  Rhine.  In  IMiilanthropy.  (a)  (Jare,  of  Poor,  JoHe[)hin(' 
Shaw  liowell.  (A)  (.'are  of  Siek,  Kdna  1).  Cheney,  (c)  Care  of  Crim- 
inals, Sus.'ui  Rarney.  (d)  ('are  of  Indiana,  A,  R.  Quinton,  (e)  Work 
of  the  \y.  C.  T.  U.,  Frances  Willard.  (/)  Work  of  the  Red  CroHP, 
Clara  Barton.     (//)  Anti-Slavery  Movement,  Lilie  R.  Chace  Wymau. 

Bishop  Potter  flays  .  •  Very  valuable  and  InterestlnK,  ,  ,  .  An  IriHpir- 
ini?  evI(ltMi(3e  of  wuniau's  cnianclputloii  from  -(tupUl  ami  inijusl  roHtrlcUoDH  an<l 
of  the  noble  sorvlco  to  her  kind  whloli  sho  1;^  so  richly  ^Iff^''!  to  render." 

Harper's  Weekly  says:  "A  very  valuable  chapter  In  AnuTlcan  History 
not  elsewhere  to  l)e  foiiiul.  .  .  It  Is  at  once  very  Intcrestlnj/  iind  very  Instructive. 

The  Christian  Union  says  :  "  Thi' stftry  of  such  a  movement,  tho  aspira- 
tion and  inspiration  that  are  embodied  In  it,  cannot  fall  to  be  a  dtlmulua  to  all 
women.    .    .    .    Mrs.  Meyer  has  done  an  excellent  work." 

FANNY  KEMBLE'S  FURTHER   RECORDS. 

Ihuform    with    "  llECOUDS    OF    a    Giui.Hoor),"    and    "  RRfonT)B  om 
LAn:ii  liiFE."     12mo.     ^2.00. 

JERRY. 

Ry  Sakah  liAUNWKLL  Ei-I.loiT.     l2mo.     .fl.iJO. 

The  N.  Y.  Herald  says  ;  '•  *  Jerry  '  19  a  remarkable  story,  and  full  of  heart. 
.  .  .  Cannot  be  outlined  :  It  should  be  read  by  all  who  like  thoughtful  stories, 
the  end  of  which  cainiot  be  ji:ues3ed  from  the  bejjrlnning." 

The  NT.  Y,  Tribune  says  :  "  All  the  scenes  In  J)urden's  uuna  are  excellent. 
The  mystery  and  the  terror  of  the  old  ^Norkinga  are  indicated  with  decided  power, 
and  the  description  Is  graphic  and  impressive.  .  .  .  '  Jerry  '  is  a  really  fresh, 
vigorous,  and  highly  Interesting  story.  ' 

The  N.  Y.  Vtrorld  says:  "This  is  the  most  distinctly  original  American 
jiovel  that  *•-':  beea  published  in  ten  years.  In  plot,  in  sentiment,  and  charac- 
ter, it  1;.  icoolent  of  the  soil  from  which  it  sprung.  .  .  It  Is  a  book  which 
will  stand  more  than  one  reading,  and  that  is  saying  much  for  a  novel  of  the 
present  dav." 

CREEK  LITERATURE. 


3y  TiioMAH  Serhkant  I'EUiiY,  author 
the  Eighteenth  Century,"  etc:.     Svo, 


of    "  Enj^flish   Literature  in 
PI).     lUu.strated.     $7.50. 


o  t  i 


The  N  Y.  Tribune  says.  "Careful,  suiHclently  full,  and  commeudably 
clear,  Mr.  I'erry  has  adopted  the  method  of  illustrating  his  text  by  copious  cita- 
tions from  the  (Jreek  authors-  In  translations,  of  course.  For  the  purpose  of  the 
general  reader  it  would  not  be  easy  to  And  a  better  or  more  trustworthy  guide 
and  assistant  than  Mr.  Perry,  lie  writes  (;f  C<reok  literature  interestingly—is 
never  dry  or  i)edantlc.  Pleases  us  by  his  sanity  of  judgment  and  his  perfectly 
dlspas.sionate  analysis.  His  readtr.-^  will  have  before  them  the  freshest  and 
broadest  Intelllgeinx'  upon  these  questions  " 

HENRf  HOLT  d  CO.,  Publishers,  29  W,  23d  St.,  Nm  Urk. 

IXXTTt.  WXI,.VX.XSXX\.t  I  \  1.11»TOT«3 


KixiKnn 


■  taiJtixi<urt(ii£nvtnvnTiri>ii(Jxnaniurrtitfsiiiititii(ttitrirun0    .iiitititrtrtrrainnai 

THE     YOUNG     FOLKS'     CYCLOPiEDI  AS 

GAMES    AND   SPORTS. 

li>    .I<M1N    IK    r'llAMl'llN,    .Jr.,    UIJ<1    AUIin'U    K      li«>'<T\VUK     Hvo, 
.s;{()  pp,,  fully  illustrril<j<l,  ^S.-V). 

A   (loinifornliiim   of   in(UH)r  find  out<U»or  nftwut'iJ,   athlt'tic   rtport**, 
riiiiiplo  ohemical  and  mochariioal  fimuHt;nitntH.  '    • 

Tho  Nation  HiiVH  ;  "If  happliicrfH  dtipeinlrt  upon  Kum^^'f*  mid  thuy  Imvc 
•  loubiN  HH  H<)inetliln>?'tt)  do  with  It— the  yoiiuff  peoplf  of  tlie  prerttiit  d;iy  ouKht  to 
ho  happier  than  any  of  tliotr  prcdoccHHorn  ;  f<»r  In  *  Tlie  Yoiinj;  Folks  Cyf^lopt'dlft 
of  (iam«;s  and  Sportrt*  tlioy  can  Iran)  H(in>etldn«  u»>out  i-vfry  j^aine  known  fn 
clvlllzod  life,  and  certainly  no  kucU  collectlun  hurt  ever  ai)pt'ared  before." 

Tho  Inaepomlont  wayw :    "Should  form  a  part  of  every  juvenile  lUtrar.v 
wliether  piiMic  ur  private." 

Tho  Boston  Tranaorlpt  rtayrt  .  'Should  find  u  welccmie  In  every  liouw- 
hold  where  there  are  {frowlnyr  children     .    .    .    We  most  huartlly  commend  It  ' 

Thfl  N  Y  TrlbuuH  Hayrt  :  "A  uilno  of  joy  .  .  A  jioHltlve  treaatire 
to  the  j?ame-I()Vlnf?  boy  and  (jrlrl ' 

COMMON     THINGS,      ^vn.  fully  illiif^trrtttHl,-:3^2.r.U 

PERSONS  AND  PLACES,    svo,  fully  iihmimo.i,  $2.5u 

]\y   .Ii.MN    D.   riiASfi'MN,   Jr 

Tho  Now  England  Joar&t  .  of  Bdnoailon  iiay»  "  IJ^cry  child  In" 
America  should  havu  them." 

From  a  Iloport  of  the   uonneottoat  Board  o^ 


The 


i 


Ev'uodtloo 

'  YouuK  Folkd'  CyclopBBtUa '  ahouid  be  In  every  JuvetLtle  'i  ^rary." 

Tho  Cincinnati  Commercial  nay^" :  "Tt  la  Hurpri,4lnK  that  no  one  ha»< 
thought  of  Huch  a  book  before.  It  Ih  Hlmpfy  what  Uh  name  implies  /ft  cyclopfiBdla 
for  cblldreru  Here  he  haw  a  compendium  of  ueefnl  knowledge  prAtMleaUy  Inex- 
haustible, which  he  can  corwult  without  help  from  hhi  eUlerp,  and  whlct:  will 
serve  to  Introduce  him  to  the  larger  workB  and  to  teach  him  ttie.  habit  of  conisult- 
Ing  them  " 

Susan  Ooolldge  nays:  "A  booK  which  will  beef  permanent  value  to  any 
boy  or  jiirl  to  whom  It  may  be  given,  ami  which  flllfl  a  place  In  the  juvenlU 
library,  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  supplied  before.  Clearly  written  and  Illustrated. 
It  furnishes  satisfactory  answers  to  a  great  nmnber  of  those  Intermhiablo  '  Whys ' 
with  which  the  minds  of  brlght-mlnded  children  are  filled,  and  which  parent* 
find  It  80  dlffl<;ult  and  wearisome  to  satisfy.' 

The  N.  Y.  Evening  Post  says:  "  We  know  copies  of  the  work  to  which 
their  youug  owners  turn  luHtantly  for  Information  upon  every  theme  about 
which  they  liave  questions  to  ask.  More  than  this,  we  know  that  some  of  these 
copies  are  read  dally  as  well  as  consulted,  that  their  owners  tuni  tlie  leaves,  as 
they  might  those  of  a  fairy-book,  reading  intently  articles  of  which  they  had  not 
thought  before  seeing  them,  and  treating  the  book  simply  as  one  cai>ablG  of  fnr 
nlshlng  tlio  rarest  entertainment  in  *xhaiwMess  tiuantltles." 

YOUNG    FOLKS'    HISTORY    OF 
THE   WAR   FOR   THE    UNION. 

Uy    JuiiN    1).    Cii.VMPLiN,  .)r.     avo,  illuBtratcd,  .$2..")0. 

The  Nation  says:  "It  la  a  book  that  can  be  heartily  ro<;oniinended,  ae 
designed  to  meet  a  real  want,  and  m»i  tln),r  It  well.  Indeed,  the  book  gives  a  good 
deal  more  than  It  promises,  for  It  Ik  equally  well  adapted  to  geut-ral  readers  who 
arc  not  young  folka.  It  is.  In  short,  a  well  written  and  entertaining  history  of  the 
war  of  the  Eebelllon,  very  fair  and  Impartial  In  tone." 

The  N.  Y.  Tribune  says  :  "Mr.  Champllu  has  made  an  attractive  volame. 
and  has  put  In  the  form  of  a  well-told,  connecte<t.  compact  narrative,  the  storv 
of  the  great  Civil  W^ar.  .  .  .  It  la  written  in  an  entertaining  style,  oalculatea 
to  hold  the  attention  of  ygnng  readers  ;  its  narratives  of  campaigns  .md  battles, 
and  its  sketches  of  the  principal  cliaractera  engaged  In  tho  struggle,  are  com- 
pact, vivid,  and  accnrate." 

HE/\IRr  HOLT  &  CO..  Publishers.  29  W.  23/i  St.,  New  Urk. 


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